


Of Blood and Bruises

by SisterSunny



Category: Rockman | Mega Man - All Media Types, Rockman | Mega Man Classic
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anal Fingering, Angst with a Happy Ending, BassRock-centric, Diplomacy, Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Grinding, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not-so-innocent! Rock, Passion, Possessive Sex, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Wall Sex, War, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 62,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23671750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SisterSunny/pseuds/SisterSunny
Summary: Nobody wanted Rock to go to Wily's castle, and even less wanted him to come. But with war hanging over their crowns like a near physical presence, he and Bass will just have to learn to get along.-In which Rock is just trying his best to save his people, Bass is being an asshole, and neither of them realise they're in love until it's too late.If you like worldbuilding, romance, enemies to lovers or all of the above, then boy do I have some news for you.
Relationships: Forte | Bass/Rockman | Mega Man, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Tundra Man/Torch Man
Comments: 61
Kudos: 51





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I can explain my 2-month absence. It starts with 'this' and ends with 'fic'.
> 
> I'm trying to make my magnum opus over here, though, so don't worry! Every chapter (updates the 10th, 20th, and 30th of every month) will be written to the best of my ability!
> 
> Without further ado, let's watch in horror as Rock and Bass hit it off about as poorly as possible.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It begins.

The map before him was a mess of corrections and asterixis. Borders redrawn once, twice, thrice, then erased entirely as one country annexed its neighbours.

Masterium. Wily’s domain—‘the playground of the powerful, and the prison of the poor’.

And in the corner of the map, cowering in the shadows of the mountains it was nestled between, Abel of the Light kingdom stayed well out of the way. Its borders were clean and unchanged; it was neutral. Its only allegiance was itself.

Because as the prince of Abel stared at the mess of a map, he knew that political allies could only cause your death.

The carpet beneath his feet was as plush as the robes Rock wore, and the hallway’s bright pink plaster and golden decorations boasted of an unmatched wealth. But the prince had lived here all his life, and he had grown accustomed. His mind dwelled instead on the map burned into his retinas, of the ever encroaching army that Wily’s general refused to let rest. As his legs strode forwards on autopilot, his mind wandered further.

Yes, Abel was neutral. Would Masterium respect that? Probability said no. In fact, probability said that they were _utterly doomed_. Abel had played both teams for as long as Rock could remember, hosting foreign banks and royal families seeking asylum since before he had been born. It was tradition; ask no questions, learn no secrets. And a country with that kind of moral impassivity was a paradise for everyone —opposite sides of a war or not.

But Masterium didn’t care. It wouldn’t have to worry about even the slightest risk of an investigation, if _it_ was the ruler of the lands.

And hence was the source of Rock’s worry.

Before he could even realise his mind wasn’t in the moment, the prince found himself before the towering doors of the Light castle’s throne room. Steeling his nerves for whatever a ‘requested presence’ entailed, he stepped in with silent grace.

The hall was quieter than a mouse’s squeak as he stood in the entrance. On his throne, Light glanced at his daughter, the Abelan general. They nodded in each other’s directions, which did nothing to ease the prince’s mind.

His father spoke gravely, “Rock, your ability to calm and compromise has so far been extremely useful in the few diplomatic trips you have taken part in. As you’re already aware of, Masterium has of yet adhered to our treaty regarding neutrality, but we all know just how well the nation has followed similar conventions elsewhere.”

He continued after a moment of silence. “Affairs with Masterium are impassive at best, and weary at worst. We need relations to improve, and _rapidly._ We need you, Rock.” The prince stopped himself from letting out a whine. He wasn’t ever exemplary at taking pressure. And, it seemed, this mission would have no such shortage.

Roll cut in, “Abel is militarily capable. A decade ago, I could have told you that we’d easily defend ourselves from any invaders. The mountain range and our soldiers’ knowledge of it played no small part in this. But now, against a potential foe as large as the Masterium might… It’s safe to say we’re collectively having second thoughts, Rock. Father’s right. You need to go to Masterium, and you need to do everything in your power to aid Abel while there. Everything, and _anything,_ Rock _.”_

Her voice softened as she continued. “Take care of yourself in Wily’s domain. Trust no one but seem trustworthy. You can do that, I believe in you. I understand any complaints you may have in regard to this mission, but please. Understand just how crucial you are. If all this doesn’t work out, then…” She trailed off. When she restarted, her voice held a certain edge. “…I’ll try my best to serve Abel. But don’t let it come to that.”

Light pulled himself off his throne and embraced his son. “I shan’t repeat your sister, but know not to let your guard down. _Especially_ in the presence of Wily. A carriage will take you to Wily city come morn—the servants are packing all your required items as we speak. And, come tomorrow, once you enter Masterium… keep vigilant. Safe travels, Rock.”

He stepped back with a small but firm smile. “Yes, of course. Fret not, father, Roll,” he nodded to them. “I _will_ return safely. You have my word.”

But as he stepped out of the throne room, his reassuring smile slipped off his features and he gripped his hair tightly in his fists.

“Oh, _fuck_.”

The map before him was a mess of arrows and shaded areas. Masterium’s crimson filled the chart like blood on a canvas, splattering at the edges and thicker near the centre. In the corner of the map, a despicable blue stood out proudly, a bruise on the continent.

Bass grinned. Soon, the bruise would heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for now, folks! Leave a review with what you thought, they really keep me going!


	2. Chapter 2

The mountains rose up like castle walls on either side of the valley. They made Rock feel secure, strangely enough. To a plains’s citizen, they could’ve seemed daunting. Maybe a challenge, or perhaps instead a foreboding warning.

But to the prince of Abel, it seemed like home. His heart ached as he bid it goodbye. Surrounding him, quaint villages built on streams dotted the landscape, and farmland stretched through the horizon.

But the peace wasn’t to last.

Soon, the deafening cracks of musket fire and screaming rang in the distance, and he resisted the urge to curl up and hide. It wasn’t until they rolled through fields of corpses that Rock gave in to the urge and whimpered.

There were two types of Masterium advances: one witnessed the Wily forces march nye undisturbed through rolling hills, and the second witnessed armies fight back.

And as they trundled through a hamlet razed to the ground, Rock feared this case was the latter.

A polite knock sounded on the door behind him.

Bass acknowledged the servant with a grunt. “Hey, Tundra.” A man with long silver braids glided up to Bass, inclining his head respectfully as he adjusted his gloves.

He spoke with a flowery accent. “ _Dobroye utro,_ General Bass. I come with news. An Abelan diplomat is due to spend the following weeks with us. It seems to be an attempt to build trust between your nation and his—he shall arrive come morrow’s ‘ene.” Tundra stepped back, scrutinising Bass through a patient guise.

He turned on the servant with a fire in his gaze. “And _who_ exactly allowed _this!?”_

Unfazed, he responded. “Your father, sir.”

Bass grit his teeth as he returned to the map, splaying his hands on the table-wide parchment. “That ancient _hag…_ The second I see that Abelan fuck, I’m throwing him in the dungeon, and the key in a smelter. Let’s see how _cooperative_ Wily’ll be then.” He spat the word like venom.

Tundra sighed lowly. He stepped closer to the general, who visibly tensed his shoulders. “Not very. Bass, he’s testing you. To him, this couldn’t have less to do with Abel. He’s prodding your loyalty. And if he finds your response a failure, He surely won’t react well.”

Bass stopped himself from growling. Taking a steadying breath, he let it out in a frustrated groan. _“Fine._ But you tell that living artefact that if he pulls one more thing like that on me, he’ll have a fucking coup d’état on his hands.”

A hesitant smile replaced Tundra’s down quirked lips, and he retreated with a bow. “ _Da,_ general. _I shall.”_ When Bass turned a second later, there wasn’t a hint of Tundra’s previous presence.

Fucking servants.

Refocussing on the map, he glowered at the proud blue bruise.

Rock grimaced at his surroundings.

They’d left the battlegrounds far behind them, but this new environment—Wily city—didn’t fare any better.

In the distance, a stone wall dotted with towers and gates stood tall, keeping a half-timbered haven at bay. Through the narrow streets they trundled down, the slums were expansive in their sunless expanse. Open sewers and rotting wood, crumbling bricks and unpaved roads—people in rags glared as he passed. Guiltily, he averted his gaze. He couldn’t help it. Those people needed all the aid they could get, but he was as helpless as they as he was brought to the castle atop the hill.

Was _this_ the Masterium might? Poverty in unabashed slums? How could any king live amongst such deplorable conditions? And worse yet: how could any king _allow_ them in the first place?

But as they undermined the wall through a heavily guarded portcullis, Rock finally saw beyond its stone brick splendour. He gasped in a mix of horror and wonder.

Sprawling palaces and beautiful plazas filled the spaces between awe-inspiring cathedrals. The cobbled pavements made beautiful spiralling patterns along the avenue, lined with trees and ornate streetlamps. The people they passed marched briskly in night-sky suits and pearlescent dresses. Even the _air_ was cleaner, on the other side. And above it all, the towering spires of Wily’s castle loomed above him like a sheer cliff.

Glancing back, Rock could barely glimpse a hint at the devastated homes of those outside the wall.

But then they rounded a corner, and the suffering ceased to be seen.

But it didn’t cease to be.

Bass seethed and hissed as he stomped through the great, grey halls of the castle. He found himself uncaring of _first impressions,_ or _elegance & eloquence._ It wasn’t a habit of his, and he wasn’t about to make it one for an entitled Abelan barely-not- _child_.

The medals on his pecs jingled lightly each time his boots slammed into the plush carpet. Which—okay, yeah. They made him look powerful, which was good. But they also _jingled_ , and he wasn’t a fucking _cow._

Despite his grievances, he straightened his posture and rolled his shoulders. Lifting his chin, he captured an aura of dominance with practised ease. And just as the last vestiges of vulnerability vanished from his features, the tall, wooden doors before him were heaved open.

There was a carriage in the courtyard.

Rock laid one boot on the gravel, grasping the driver’s outstretched glove as he exited the carriage with grace.

His environment—the monasterial stone-bricked castle—bore down upon him. As if gazing upwards from a deep well’s floor, he was trapped. Surrounding him, cloisters, towers, and unnerving halls all stacked on top of each other to cage him in.

A wispy breeze sent a shudder down his spine, but he mustered up his bravery and chanced a glance ahead. Before him, an army official glowered from his podium atop the doorway’s stairs. The uniform he wore was a deep crimson with lavish and blasé usage of golden ornaments. Rock felt himself freeze: the man was Wily’s general, no doubt. For a brief moment, he could do little more but stare.

But he rushed to correct himself. Bowing posthaste, he stumbled mentally as the man’s scowl deepened. His arms were stubbornly crossed, and his pores exuded malice in lethal doses. Choosing his words carefully, Rock introduced himself. “Good afternoon, sir. I’m-“

“Shut. Up.” The man growled.

Rock’s eyes widened. “…pardon?”

The general began walking loudly down the steps. “Shut. _Up._ Don’t for a second think that I want you here. I want you _gone_ , so keep your fucking mouth sealed _._ You will _stay_ out of my way, and you will not _get_ in the way. _Got it?”_

Shoving the prince away for good measure, he spun around and reascended the steps with a grunt. Rock stared at the retreating figure, then down at his feet, willing his legs to thaw.

“…Of course,” He whispered to the air.

“…Of course.”

The prince eyed the door. The room beyond it was his, according to the servant. He felt his hands close around the doorknob. They twisted and pushed without his permission.

It was… a normal room. He was expecting something more… _more_. But as he delicately laid upon on the bed, he found himself realising that this chamber couldn’t influence his fate. He was stuck here. Imprisoned, like a last ditch effort thrown into the maws of a beast, hoping it would placate it.

At least, that’s what it felt like, as a tear rolled silently down his cheek. The walls and ceiling were blurry through the saline. Squeezing his eyes shut, Rock rolled onto his front and buried his face in the pillows. Rubbing them away, they only flowed harder.

He didn’t even know why he couldn’t stop them.

But he was here now. Cemented to a royal family with the manners of a trebuchet, sans escape. And if he _were_ to escape—he shuddered. No, he wouldn’t. He _couldn’t._ Not because of a physical impossibility, but rather a likelihood. Without the threadbare string of his presence holding together the peace, millions would die. He had no choice but to persevere.

Ah. So maybe that was why he was crying.

He wasn’t ever exemplary at taking pressure.

Yesterday, Rock had walked down a carpeted hallway in trepidation. Today, he did so in defeat.

The same servant that had shown him to his room had insisted he brought Rock to the dining hall. He strode ahead, with him in tow. Perhaps _Rock_ should’ve been the one marching with purpose and head held high. But royal or not, he was out of his depth, and now the depth beneath him was dark and deep, and above all _dangerous_.

Masterium haunted him, but no ghosts roamed his mind’s roads. Here, he was on death row, with an indefinitely postponed execution. The crowd jeered at him, and his hands were bound. Spectators watched eagerly for the blade to fall, but the timer ticked down yet with no hint of stopping. He could plead, but mercy ran dry in this cursed land. He couldn’t stop it—His hands were bound!

He was stuck.

The prince hadn’t noticed he’d halted until the servant’s lithe fingers tipped up his chin. “Are you alright, sir? You’ve turned a deathly pale.”

Blinking, his eyes refocussed on the present. “…Yes.” He affirmed, nodding slowly. “Let’s continue.”

They walked in silence.

He was rusty. Blunt as the blade of a butter knife, and as useless as one, too. He flinched, inwardly. What was he thinking, taking up this mission?

It didn’t matter, he reminded himself.

It wasn’t like thought and debate could’ve changed the outcome.

So _why_ did the general hate him so? He’d made it clear, but he’d also been simultaneously vaguer than Rock previously thought possible. Gone? How _childish_ was this man? They didn’t even know each other’s names, and a path to mutual hatred had already been paved.

His doubts barraged and followed him until his arrival at the dining hall’s entrance.

The doors swung open with silent grace, belying their magnitude and wooden nature. Near comedically slight in the shadow of their frames, Rock felt two powerful gazes turn and pierce through him.

The table the Wily family dined at was suited for a feast. It made the sole occupants at the head of the table seem like the last of a group; the survivors. Something itched inside of him. The men who sat in this hall had enough power to crucify him with a nod and a frown—they weren’t survivors. They were bloodthirsty conquerors.

When an acknowledgement finally did come, its bitter tone thinned his lips. “What the fuck did I say, _shithead?”_

Wily’s gaze returned to the food on his plate, but Rock and the general locked gazes unnervingly.

The mutual glare made him twitch. _Never disobey the will of the host._

Years of rules, engrained deep into his mannerisms, trembled in the wake of his fear-frustration concoction. _Cooperate with the one in power._

They were never carved to withstand this situation, however. An environment in which the powerful didn’t follow conducts: Wily’s domain. _Keep quiet in charged conversations._

The rules, so many _rules_ ; his mind tore in two as half screamed at him to stay complacent, and the other cried that enough was enough.

And when his emotions won out, it wasn’t so much a shattering of a mindset rather than a tipping balance.

Rock’s deathly calm murmur sliced through their deadlock. “You said to stay out of your way. You said not to get in your way. I am in no way disobeying. I am not impeding upon any conversation, nor am I restricting your access to your whims. I have followed your instructions perfectly, _sir_. Do not attempt to discipline me on something _I didn’t do.”_ His voice was rising subtly, but it was only to cover up a mounting fear.

The man put down his cutlery, and took a breath of faux-calm. When he spoke, his voice was as chilled as the ice that, undoubtedly, encased his heart. “Listen here—what’s your name, _prince?”_ He spat Rock’s royalty with a grimace and barely restrained rage.

‘Rock’, he almost said.

“…What’s _yours_?” He said instead.

The challenge broke the barrier, and the general shot up from his chair with a roar. _“YOU FUCKING DISGRACE-“_

Wily grabbed his son’s wrist with an unmatched speed, yanking him back down onto his seat with a glare. Rock waited until the atmosphere lost its edge, then sat himself two chairs down from the pair.

“…Bass.”

Rock felt himself blink, turning to the general to see him fist the fork in his hand and clench his other fist on the table.

“…Bass?” He inquired, tilting his head.

“…that’s my name.”

His eyes widened. Bass. Wily’s general. “Oh.” He murmured unintelligently. “…Bass.”

It was his turn to stare down at the food in his plate, only then realising he’d been served. “…mine’s Rock.”

Silence reigned like a gaping chasm.

“…Rock.” Bass murmured. The prince nodded, nye imperceptibly.

Unnoticeably, the first planks of a rickety rope bridge began to cross the ravine between them.


	3. Chapter 3

Bass watched with disdain as the Abelan diplomat stepped out of the carriage with flourish.

His stature was shorter than that of Bass’s. Shamrock eyes shone bright against his pale skin and chestnut hair, but they seemed to dim as the prince absorbed his surroundings. Their gazes locked, and Bass watched unamusedly as the prince stalled for a tense moment. Recovering, he hastily bowed, a gesture as surface-deep as the composure he kept up.

“Shut. Up.” The general felt fiery, silencing an attempted introduction.

“Pardon?”

“Shut. _Up_.” He restated. The fair-skinned diplomat flinched back as he was berated. “You will _stay_ out of my way, and you will not _get_ in the way. _Got it?”_ Bass pushed away the cowering man with a contemptuous scowl, departing without a backwards glance. This stuck-up, spineless coward didn’t deserve one.

He’d call for the prince’s assassination later—make it seem plotted by insurgents.

But, honestly?

Bass doubted he’d survive Masterium, anyway.

Like a butter knife. Blunt, maybe—but he wasn’t useless.

Rock strode through the castle’s halls with newfound determination.

Bring a butter knife to a sword fight and expect failure. But bring a sword to a banquet, and expect arrest. His disarming demeanour was often his greatest asset in most diplomatic affairs, but Wily and those he surrounded himself with were abnormal to every degree. If he wished to endure the castle, he’d simply have to alter his situation.

His eyes caught on a painting. It was tall, and its frame bore noticeably more wear than its neighbours.

Rock nudged it aside, revealing a dark passageway lurking beyond. He peered around as he slipped in—the occasional lit candle cast the maze of hallways in an eerie dim gold glow, and dripping pipes ran along the damp walls.

A servant’s hallway, as he’d come to recognise them.

The first door he came upon in his aimless wandering didn’t open to a room. Or rather, it did: it simply didn’t seem that way when the door was closed.

He entered with his eyes blown wide.

Observing his surroundings, he seemed to be in a library. Behind him, the grandmother clock stood with its opening swung ajar; beyond it, shadows obscured the sprawling passages.

He felt a grin forming as he returned to the halls.

He roamed the winding paths through the castle’s entirety, noting the various entrances and exits with satisfaction. Every room had a connection via the network—and now that he knew them all, perhaps he had a fresh advantage to press.

His attention drifted from the familiar passageways—a sense of déjà vu bothered his subconscious as he circled back unknowingly. It was time he left, but he could do so later; his mind was too preoccupied on his newfound shortcuts and escape routes.

With the network, espionage would be… simpler.

“Engaged in rather unprincely activities, are we?”

The voice appeared behind him, its orator following soon after. Rock startled, whipping around to stare at the same servant who’d brought him to his chambers. “Tundra,” the man purred through a smile, “pleased to make your acquaintance.” The prince shook the outstretched hand, recovering poorly. “…And yours. I’m- Rock, as you must already know. I was simply exploring, you see.”

“Of course,” Tundra nodded, “exploring.”

Visibly uncomfortable, Rock piped up. “…Well, I suppose I’ll take my leave, then-“

The butler seemed affronted. “No, no, no, prince! It wouldn’t do any good to leave such a potentially pleasant conversation unvoiced. _Davay_ , I’ll brew us some tea.” He spun around, tailcoat billowing as he strode through the halls.

The prince followed, brows furrowed bemusedly as they exited into a well-decorated lounge. Tundra motioned to the chaise, retrieving a tray of tea in china cups from the counter before placing it on the coffee table. Rock sat himself opposite the servant, accepting the proffered saucer with a nod of thanks.

“Tundra…” He started, unsure why he spoke. When he blurted out the first thought that crossed his mind, he wished he hadn’t.

“…Do you regularly interact with Bass?”

From opposite him, the butler sighed softly into his cup. “Yes,” a fond smile twitched his lips. “Although at times he becomes… difficult, I’ll admit I expected worse from the second most powerful man in the world.”

Rock startled. Right—yes. He was used to uneven power dynamics, being both a prince (untouchable) to his people, and a prince (lowly) to other royal families. He’d grown to ignore them, over time. It helped his charisma, and charisma helped his head from rolling.

That being said, he’d just traded names with a _warlord_.

“…I suppose you’re correct,” he allowed. Tundra smiled, silent in his thoughts.

Expected worse?

(Strangely, Rock felt as if perhaps he had, too.)

Rock lay in bed, staring at the ceiling with avid bemusement.

His mind churned through thought after thought as he attempted to slumber in silence. His conversation with Tundra had been surprisingly pleasant, and they’d bid each other farewell as tentative friends. Not allies; not yet. But Rock had it in his best interests to construct himself a safety net, and the servant radiated an odd aura of calm power.

He huffed.

Bass was another matter entirely. He wasn’t safe in the general’s company, and he certainly didn’t trust him. But their last exchange had placed them on a first-name basis, and the silence that had proceeded hadn’t felt… _uncomfortable_.

Not quite, anyway.

His conflicted contemplations clashed loudly, the sounds of battle keeping him awake long into the night.

“Prince, the sun rises. It’s time you arose, _net?_ ”

Rock’s eyelids fluttered open languidly, pupils darting about the room before settling on a primly-dressed butler. “…Tundra? I’m usually accustomed to early awakenings, what time is it?”

The man poured him a cup of tea, chuckling softly. “Not a minute past six thirty. Do you wish to be awoken later? Breakfast is served, although Bass tends not to awaken ‘till past seven.”

“No,” he rushed out. “No, I’m very well as I am, thank you.”

Tundra paused, levelling him with a gaze. “You wish not to see him.” It was an odd hybrid of question and statement. He sighed, glancing at the teapot with thinned lips. When he spoke, his voice seemed distant. “I know he isn’t a kind soul. Or a good person. Those truths were never in question.”

The servant seated himself on the bed, and Rock sat up to join him. Tundra turned to him, eyes focussed.

“But his unsaintly status doesn’t render him a demon by process of elimination. At a younger year, I shared your attitudes towards the general. Without exception, he would act the part of an egotistical, arrogant maniac who’s military strategies massacred innocents.”

“But since those months’ passing, I’ve grown wiser to his truths. I shan’t lie and say it’s a mask he wears. I shan’t apologise on his behalf, not when his ruthless armies tore down my city and forcibly removed me from a life of peace. I never wanted to be a servant to this family, but it was service or enslavement.”

Tundra turned to him with an uncharacteristically dry smile. “I’ve adapted.”

“…I won’t play devil’s advocate for him, but I’ve since then learnt. I’ve learnt _why._ He’s not an intricate web of villainous intent; the boy wants his father’s approval—and his father wants the world on a platter. He was pruned into an egotistical nature because he was who he was: completely in control, always. He craves the power and surety that complete domination offers him, because he’s convinced that without it he’s worthless.”

The servant took a sip from his teacup, allowing the silence to steam before he turned to Rock.

“His awful personality won’t stop being awful so long as you view him as evil. Once the veil lifts and your mind clears of the justifiable contempt, you’ll see him as he truly is. Vulnerable. Scared. Desperate.”

Tundra smiled. “And then you can start to improve each other.”

That morning’s advice rattled through his brain as he prowled the servants’ halls absentmindedly.

Rock had been tempted to speak with the general, following Tundra’s sympathetic words. He’d found himself outside Bass’s chambers, unsure of his intentions yet also scandalously certain.

In the end, he’d run away—out of sight, into the dull, dank networks he grew more and more thankful for with each new day. It should’ve been shameful how rapidly the passageways grew familiar, but he’d learnt that safety was a scarce and precious illusion in Masterium’s capital.

But Rock wasn’t an idiot. He fully understood the situation he couldn’t escape.

And yet still, he wasn’t sure what he was doing. What he was waiting for. The cold seeped into his flesh, and the humidity formed rivulets on his brow. There was no advantage to his indefinite bated breath; the hallways nipped his skin in reminder. It was as if unseen eyes watched his movements.

He hunched slightly as the darkness cast fear unto his mind, and his vest seemed too tight against his chest. His breathing accelerated.

Rock glanced backwards. The shadows seemed to follow him as his stride sped up. A shiver crept its way down his spine.

He needed to leave.

It was as if the network was sentient; its twists and turns seemed to reformat themselves in his hurry to escape. But when he finally did, he stumbled out into a room he didn’t recognise yet knew at once.

He froze.

Tundra watched the prince enter the war room with a blank stare. His eyes followed the figure calculatingly, unwilling to either compromise or give in. When Rock stumbled to an abrupt stop, the servant made for the passages’ shadows once more.

A thought crossed his mind, and he paused.

Counting to ten, he resumed his stride. Rock wouldn’t be harmed.

He mustn’t be harmed.

Every moment spent in the room pumped more adrenaline through his arteries. Paralysed in the threshold, his mind ran wild.

Yes, he supposed a simple hasty exit could’ve sufficed; it would’ve certainly been safer than the alternative. But in a room chock-full of military secrets—in an era of conquering and resistance—his moral compass swung wildly.

Closing his eyes and sighing deeply, he stepped in further; away from escape.

The table drew his attention first. A chandelier hung above it, casting the map etched into its surface with warmer hues. Arrows pointed from crimson to blue like magnets, attracted to its riches and wealth. Rock bit his lip and averted his gaze.

There were no doubts, now: Masterium was plotting to invade Abel.

He huffed. It was old news, and it had been since expansionism became the red country’s stability. That fact alone didn’t help, though. Surrounded on three sides, the method of invasion was yet unclear.

He needed to know the manner if they wanted a chance—he had no choice.

Or at least, that’s what he assured himself as he began the search.

The room seemed far more daunting, now that every drawer, shelf, and desk held potentially crucial information. Starting clockwise from the drawers nearest to the strategy table, he made his way across the room in record time. Boxes were searched through with fervent haste, and drawers were open and shut with increasing desperation. His time ticked away ruthlessly.

Rock stared at the document in his hands. Flipping to the first page, his eyes skimmed its contents.

‘…troop movements will continue through the tundra with protective gear. The advance will be kept hasty, and minimum breaks shall be afforded…’

Abel didn’t have any tundras. Filing it away and opening the next, he felt the world beyond its pages slip away.

‘…farmers who resist the confiscation will be arrested and sentenced to five years of labour in a work camp. The state shall be sole possessor of all agricultural properties…’

Curiosity battled against him as he found the next folder—its codename, ‘ _Ourea’_ , as unhelpful as the last.

‘…advance through the north-east corridor, marching downhill via road with cavalry. Abel forces will be engaged with only from high ground. Advances through settlements should set up communication and supply outposts…’

Rock felt his heart stutter to a stop as he felt the last shreds of his composure slip. Somehow, knowing the manner made it all that much more real—he was in danger.

A dagger’s blade came to rest against his larynx.

“You weren’t supposed to read that.” Bass’s voice chilled his blood as he growled into Rock’s ear.

His eyes widened, “I… please, let’s not be hasty-“

 _“LET’S NOT BE HASTY!?”_ The general roared. He couldn’t help but flinch, twisting his neck to try and escape both the decibels and the knife. He gasped when Bass fisted his hair and jerked it backwards. Viewing the man above him, upside-down, their laboured breaths mingled.

 _“Fuck. That._ Give me _one_ reason I shouldn’t slit your throat. Right here, right now. It’d make it easier for me, with a complication out of the way and no more obstacles to invasion. Go on, _try.”_

Rock had always thought he’d die spectacularly—a final stakeout against Masterium’s forces in a well-defended fortress, or an assassination attempt involving many moving parts and tragedies. That he’d be killed for a failed espionage attempt was pathetic.

He refused to be murdered this way.

“Tundra.”

Bass’s smirk slipped off his face, “What?”

He twisted the general’s arm fiercely, kicking him away as the dagger dropped from his grip. Rock dove for the weapon, aiming it at the man below him as he staggered to his feet.

The general snorted derisively. “You don’t even fucking know how to use it. You’re holding it wrong.”

Rock didn’t dignify the provocation with an answer. “Tundra,” he repeated. “He’s living proof that you’re not as bad as you make yourself out to be.”

Bass blinked, nonplussed. When he spoke, bafflement tinted his words. “I… _what!?_ You’re pointing a knife I just threatened your life with at me— _as you tell me I’m not a bad person!?”_

He continued, unfazed. “So, then: why do you act like one? Why do you threaten, why do you kill? Why do you force your soldiers to massacre indiscriminately?”

The general scowled, silent.

“Bass?” He pressed. “I’m confused. You treat some like humans, but others like problems. Do you realise not that each is as real as the next?”

The silence elongated as Bass continued to glower up at him. Belatedly, Rock realised that the uneven power dynamics only amplified their impasse. Resolute, he huffed a sigh of exasperation and stabbed the dagger into _Ourea_.

Offering his hand out to the general, he only had a moment to appreciate the dumbstruck expression.

The next, he was being tackled into the floor.

Bass’s face was twisted into a wrathful growl, and he pinned Rock with his weight straddled on the prince’s abdomen. One of his fists held Rock’s arms above his head. The other was clenched tightly, raised in preparation for a strike.

 _“SHUT UP! Shut the FUCK up! You think you’re some kind of saint, huh!?”_ The prince winced, eyeing the trembling fist in trepidation. “No, I- Bass, wait-“

His head snapped to the side, and the shock froze him more than the pain that followed.

Rock’s gaze trailed up to meet Bass’s.

The general stared at him with wide eyes, panting heavily as his fist raised up again. Rock felt a surge of fear, feeling his lungs burn with carbon. It was disproportionate to the danger posed, but all too real nonetheless.

The breath punched from his chest as he was thrown backwards. Raising his eyes to glare at Bass, the stare he received muddled his emotions.

Time seemed to stop.

Betwixt the two, the air grew sharp and thin. The general seemed to gaze straight through him: horrified and disoriented, as if _he_ had been the recipient of the unrestrained blow. Bass took a step back, glancing furtively at the exit.

Rock opened his mouth to speak, but his throat constricted.

When his gaze lowered to the floor, the sound of hurried footsteps filled the room. The door slammed shut, and they abruptly quietened.

“I…”

“…Bass?”

The empty room didn’t respond. Sighing shakily, his head dropped into his palms.

“Alright.”

“…That’s fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	4. Chapter 4

The hand on Rock’s shoulder grounded him.

It was comforting, he supposed. He felt better, he supposed. Still, he took a moment too long to register the words that broke the silence.

“It was Bass, _net?”_

Tundra’s voice was calm. Neutral. Rock would make comparisons to the breath-taking tarns back in Abel, or the forests that climbed the mountains. He’d make a speech, just to distract himself from the events of the day.

“It was,” Tundra guessed, “your silence is evidence enough.”

Rock replied in a quiet murmur. “I deserved it.”

The servant chuckled. “Perhaps. But I’ve not come to judge; I’m here to help.”

“…Help?”

“Are you refusing it?”

“…No,” Rock decided, “no, I suppose I’m not.” And then, “Why?”

“Why not?”

He didn’t reply. The silence wasn’t comfortable, but he didn’t want it to be.

“…Rock, you’re the diplomat whose shoulders are weighted by the burden of the world. Without you, I fear the dawn of a dark age. We—and I speak as the collective voice of all those tormented by Masterium—we all need you.”

Rock huffed mirthlessly. The words echoed those he’d told himself yesterday. “Thanks,” he muttered, unimpressed.

“I’m telling you this not to discourage you, prince. You need to first acknowledge the truth to improve reality.”

“Naturally.”

Tundra’s lips pulled taut. He paused for a moment, contemplating his words, then began again.

“Rock.”

“Yes?”

“I lied.”

The prince snapped to stare at the servant. “I’m sorry?”

“I told you Bass wasn’t a bad person. I lied. He’s most _certainly_ a bad person. If this continues: come a century, and his legacy will be little more than a list of crimes.”

Rock fell silent, unsure of what to say.

“That’s why I’m helping you.”

He furrowed his brow, allowing the information to process. “I don’t follow.”

“Because you have the potential to help him. You have the potential to _fix_ him.”

“I,” he started, “I’m not here to repair a broken general, Tundra.”

The servant tilted up his chin with a soft, admiring smile. It put a pause to his train of thought—he was used to pity, he was accustomed to favour-vying. But _admiration?_

That was new.

“No, you’re not. You’re here to save lives, Rock. All I need you to do is save _his,_ too.”

Tundra smiled a final time, patting his cheek as he rose from his crouch. “I bid you farewell, dearest Rock.”

And, quieter yet still loud enough to be heard, “I wish you luck, too.”

Bass scowled when he next saw Rock.

It’d been a day since then—a peaceful, beautiful day without _any_ _fucking spying_ —and he unabashedly wished it’d been a few more. He had absolutely no desire to see the Abelan prince, ever.

Because then he’d have to answer _questions._ Like _‘why haven’t I been executed yet’,_ or _‘why didn’t you follow up on your first punch’_. Or, if the universe hated him enough, both.

Clearly, it did.

Rock spotted him before he had a chance to escape. The glare he sent the prince was rivalled only by the calculating stare he received in return. “Fuck off,” he warned, when the danger of conversation became tangible, “I don’t want to hear your fucking excuses.”

“I don’t wish to speak them.”

And alright, now he fucking _did._ That _bitch_ dared to _waltz into the war room, unabashedly_ gather intel, then act _entirely unapologetic?_ Yeah, now he wanted to hear _all_ of the prince’s pathetic excuses, just so he could shove them back in his face and walk off.

He pinned Rock to the wall with a growl.

_“Oh? Shame.”_

From under Bass, the prince shot him an evaluating look—which, by the way, he had _no fucking right to_. Bass leaned into the gap between them, lips pulled into a sneer. “I hope you don’t wish to speak any _questions,_ either. That _wouldn’t end well.”_

The hush that followed grew long, but it wasn’t one of surrender.

Rock glared at him—but not in anger. Indecisiveness, frustration, and a mix of other emotions Bass couldn’t quite parse. But the heat didn’t stem from hate, and it made him feel like a puzzle with a missing piece. He _fucking_ _hated_ it.

Bass shoved the prince away with a contemptuous growl.

“I’m not gonna kill you, if that answers any of them.”

Rock stared at him as he strode away, but sprung into action a moment later. He caught up with him effortlessly, slipping beside him with a practiced ease. “Only one. For how long? Why?”

“None of your business, asshole.”

Annoyance seeped into Rock’s tone when he spoke. _“No,_ it is _very much_ my business, Bass. It’s _my life-“_

“In _my hands.”_ He interrupted impatiently. “So don’t meddle with what’s no longer yours.”

“Bass!”

The general stopped, whirled around, and caught Rock on his left hand. With his right, he tipped his chin upwards in the most condescending manner he could muster. “I’d ask you to shut up, but I’m the one in power here, _got that?_ So, I’m _ordering_ you to shut up, instead. _Shut. Up.”_

He let the silence brew for a healthy moment, but spun around and marched onwards before the prince could utter a word.

This time, he wasn’t followed.

When Rock next found himself in the passageways, it was out of spite.

Two hours ago, he was gaping in the dust of Bass’s immaturity. Now, he was looking for revenge.

Or more precisely, Bass’s room.

Pushing past a variety of uniforms, he exited the walk-in closet with a disgruntled frown. The chambers he found himself in were opulent: gold filigree, plush pillows, and silken drapes. There was no doubt that Bass slept here.

It was the bureau that caught his eye, however. Atop it, a letter lay opened and a parchment folded up beside it. Strolling over carefully, Rock flattened it out.

_‘General Bass,_

_Victory in the north is imminent. Within the month, I predict our forces to arrive at the demoralised capital and for the Cossacks to capitulate._

_I warn you, however: Abel may deem the moment before victory to be opportune for a pre-emptive strike. Although this doesn’t pose an immediate threat—our forces can handle a two-fronted war—it will certainly cause unnecessary losses._

_I recommend that you increase both the number, and size, of the border patrols. If not to safeguard the border, then to prepare for our attack._

_And once we do, our victory in the Light kingdom will be as efficient and brutal as the current war is proving to be._

_Sincerely, Flash.’_

Rock gingerly replaced the letter atop the desk. This time, no blade came to his throat. No husky voice threatened his life. The chambers were silent, and he was, too.

The prince’s time grew thin.

His execution was postponed, but for how long? How long could he hold out—should hold out? Perhaps he should’ve fled. Should’ve stolen a horse, days ago—and fled.

Maybe the time he had left wasn’t enough.

He sighed.

Was there nothing he could do? Was Abel destined to doom, and its people with it? And, in the face of an unstoppable force; should Abel strive to be an unmovable object, or should it jump from its path and surrender?

He didn’t know if it was even _moral_ to surrender. Whether the death of a soldier or the death of a slave was preferable, Rock wasn’t prepared to mentally debate.

He needed air.

The letter wasn’t where he’d left it.

Bass growled. _That asshole._ _That fucking bitch._

Of course he’d read the letter. Why _wouldn’t_ he have read the letter? ‘Learn’ and ‘lesson’ must’ve been two of the _many_ words Rock seemed _incapable_ of properly understanding.

Crumpling up the parchment, Bass threw it at the opposite end of the room. He froze when it tumbled and flapped. A gentle breeze washed over him, and his eyes locked onto the open window.

As if it’d beckoned him, he jogged over apprehensively.

The gardens beyond his room were beautiful—but it was the familiar form of a prince, leaning lazily against the balustrade, that caught his attention.

His eyes narrowed.

Bass stumbled out of his room without a second thought, chasing the staircase to the ground floor as he burst out into the gravel pathways. Running to where he could see Rock, he felt fury muddle his mind.

He fantasised momentarily, of simply pushing the idiot off the terrace.

And summarily hissed out a curse when the thought made him stumble. _Fucking asshole_ , why did _Rock_ of all people bring out his _benevolent side?_ Why _him_ , when everything he did, every will he had, was to make Bass’s life harder?

He stopped himself a safe distance from the prince; from Rock, with his _magical fucking powers_ that somehow made Bass want to, to-

He didn’t even fucking _know._

 _“ROCK!”_ He called out, letting his rage rekindle. _“I KNOW WHAT YOU DID!”_

And apparently ‘safe distance’ wasn’t far enough, because when Rock pleasantly called back “Bass,” he fought not to take a step forward.

“Shut up! Shut. The _fuck_ up! You act as if you’ve done jackshit wrong! Were you dropped on your head when you were young? Were you _repeatedly smashed against a wall? What the FUCK made you think further spying would get you OUT of your situation!?”_

“I wasn’t thinking.” Rock’s voice was less pleasant, now. More hollow, more shallow. It was a whisper in response to his bellowing.

“Well isn’t that just _convenient,”_ he snarled. The prince glanced back at him, then returned his gaze to the city before him. His shoulders rose, then fell drastically as a sigh punched out of him.

He mumbled a short phrase incoherently.

Bass growled. “Say it louder, you coward!” Rock whipped around, eyes narrowed as they locked onto his.

“I’m _sorry!”_

The general had never thought two words could deflate him so quickly.

“I’m _sorry,_ _okay?_ I’m apologising, because you might be an asshole,” Bass bristled, “but I’ve been one too, and that makes us equally bad. You’ve indirectly killed millions, but I’ve unabashedly spied twice now.” Rock walked away from the balustrade, nearing Bass with an air of confrontation.

“And now that I have, I know the full truth of it all. I’m _fucked,_ Bass. I’m _royally fucked,_ and dead to the world. Why aren’t I dead—truly dead? I deserve it. I’ve failed my people and my sister _and my father and I-“_

 _“Shut up!”_ Bass interrupted ferociously. He pushed the prince back towards the edge of the garden, growling the entire time. “Do you _want_ to fucking die? I _could_ kill you, you know. I could just-“ He grabbed Rock’s vest in a tight fist, pushing him up and over the balustrade. Rock glanced down with a grimace, his back hanging over a deadly fall.

 _“Push_ a _little_ further and _splat_ would go the prince of Abel.”

Rock gripped his hold with both hands, but he didn’t try to break free. “What makes you think I don’t want that? _Hmm?_ Perhaps it never crossed your mind that in a month, if I’m not hanging from a noose or decidedly _headless,_ then I’d be the last survivor in my family. That come autumn, in a few months’ time, I’d be the only Abelan not toiling in a work camp. All the while, I’d be surrounded by those who’d killed, raped, and enslaved my people. _Does that honestly sound preferable to death?”_

Bass didn’t like the glint that flashed through Rock’s eyes. He grabbed onto the prince’s waist with his free hand, clamouring for something, _anything,_ to say.

When Rock spoke again, his voice was lethally calm. “There’s nothing I can say that can convince your mind otherwise, Bass. Let go.”

He grit his teeth. “No.”

“Bass, don’t be foolish. Don’t you want to?”

_“No.”_

Rock blinked, taken aback. When he spoke, his tone was careful, but firm. “You know, last time I’d feared for my life, I’d thought about how I’d always envisioned myself dying spectacularly. This may not be an assassination in which the bounty on my head could purchase a city, or a public execution with crowds that burst at the seams—but now I think it’s fitting for me. In the history books, I’ll be Prince Rock of the forgotten kingdom: ruler of the Abelan cemetery. Or rather, I hope so. I hope it won’t simply be ‘Prince Rock the failure of a diplomat’.”

Bass was outwardly panting now, both fists clenched tightly on the prince’s (previously) immaculate outfit.

“It’s a rather interesting metaphor, don’t you think? Thrown from a garden of splendour, only alive long enough to realise my imminent death before I crash into the mud of poverty below. That’s _poetry,_ Bass.”

The general threw Rock onto the ground beside him.

_There’s nothing I can say that can convince you otherwise, Bass._

He panted heavily as they stared at each other. The prince, on the other hand, was frozen. In his eyes, shock, frustration, and awe battled for dominance. The winner was still unclear when he spoke.

“Why…?”

“Maybe there is _,_ you know.”

Rock let out a weak sound of perplexment.

Bass sighed, averting is gaze. “Maybe you _can_ convince me otherwise.”

It was phrased badly, and he wasn’t even sure if it was true—but now he wanted to be convinced. Now, the prince that stared up at him with awe: maybe now, he wasn’t so much of the enemy, anymore.

There was something Bass didn’t like in Rock’s eyes. Something like wonder, and it made him feel hot and unsure.

He saw the prince open his mouth to speak, and he ran.


	5. Chapter 5

Rock stared at the door before him.

His hand rose as if to knock, then retreated in juddering, hesitant steps. Clenching both fists by his sides, he let out a suffering huff.

...And yelped when the door swung open.

From where he stood at the entrance, Bass glared at him. “I don’t wanna talk with you, asshole. Fuck off.”

“Wait!” He implored, “we don’t need to speak about what happened. Yesterday.”

“Well then why the hell are you here?” The general looked unimpressed, but the door hadn’t slammed shut yet.

“To,” Rock started, then winced. “To convince you otherwise.”

Recognition flashed through Bass’s eyes and he, too, grimaced. Nonetheless, it took him a painfully long moment to step away from the door and let him in.

“And how exactly are you gonna do that?” Bass stared at him. His lips were thinned and his eyes were too, but hadn’t rejected anything outright.

The gaze pinned him to his spot. “What would you wish to do?” He managed.

“Try ‘about fuck all’,” was the deadpan reply.

“Bass, please. Work with me — what do you like?”

He sighed, “strategy. I like strategy, I guess.”

“Do you have any board games?”

“Chess.” He shrugged.

Rock lit up. “Perfect! Where is it?” Bass hesitated, then answered in a growl. “The war room.”

His bright grin faltered. “The _war room?_ Why there, of all places? I’m sure you don’t like your contestants in a room full of classified documents.”

“Well you already fucking _know them all_ , so I don’t see the harm in it.” He spat.

Rock tried to smile, but it looked as sour as it tasted. “I- I’m sorry about that, I hope you know.”

The incredulous look Bass sent him slowly dampened into something else. He huffed, glancing to the side. “Whatever, asshole. Your fuckin’ apologies don’t help, believe it or not.”

The prince copied him, averting his gaze as he waited for the silence to end.

“…And it’s not like I had anyone to play it with, anyway.”

Rock peeked at the general, “why not?”

Bass scowled at him, but answered nonetheless. “Don’t mock me, _prince._ My father can’t stand me, half the servants despise me, and I terrify the rest. Besides Tundra — who was absolute dogshit at it, and refused to play after his sixth consecutive loss — I had no one to play with besides myself.”

Rock studied the general’s tight expression. That didn’t truly answer any questions — Bass hadn’t forgotten about the game, so he must’ve played it frequently enough.

His eyes widened. “So you did.”

Bass huffed. “So I did. Whenever stress tried to overwhelm me, I’d pull it from the drawer and play a round against myself — as whichever nation I’d be invading. I’d use their tactics for the black side, and mine for the white. I usually won. In the cases I didn’t, I’d switch up my strategy for each game until I did. It helped me feel better.”

Rock waited to make sure the general was done, then placed his hand on Bass’s shoulder.

He shrugged it off violently. _“Don’t pity me, fucker.”_

“I don’t,” he spoke serenely, unsure if he was lying or not. “I understand you.”

 _That_ was certainly a lie.

“Oh, is that so?” Bass mocked, advancing on the prince. “I’m sure your life was _very_ lonely, with your _loving_ family, and _loving_ people, and-“

“Are you lonely?” He cut in.

Bass hissed. “No, I’m not _fucking_ lonely _._ ”

“Well you have me now, you know,” he ignored the general’s response. “So you don’t have to be lonely anymore. I can be your friend.”

“What makes you think I want a _friend?”_ Bass spat the word as he did his insults. “I don’t,” Rock replied. “I think you need one. Besides, I’d like to play some chess with you.”

Rock saw the general visibly deflate.

“…Alright.”

“Lead the way then, Bass.”

The walk to the war room was as brisk as it was silent, but they reached its doorway before the silence could grow oppressive.

Bass threw open the doors without hesitation, making for the bottom drawer in his desk. Rummaging through it, he pointed at the table in the centre of the room with a grunt.

Rock did as he was instructed.

He watched the general near with a chessboard in one hand and a small briefcase in the other. Placing both on the table, he unlocked the latter with a ‘snick’, and opened it. Wordlessly, they distributed the chessmen on the board.

Similarly unvoiced was Bass’s claim on the white side.

“You start,” Rock grinned, and with that they began.

Bass hadn’t known what to expect when he’d agreed to the proposition.

It was clear Rock hadn’t, either — and he couldn’t tell if that made him disconcerted or excited. There was a certain surety to his every move: be it bluff or bluster — or perhaps neither, and rather skill — it served only to unnerve him.

Rock’s pawn toppled his knight.

Bluster, then. Bass smirked.

He watched Rock’s grin slip into a frown, “check.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” He snorted. “I think you’ve realised your own demise, prince.”

When Rock glanced up, however, he wasn’t grimacing like the general had expected him to; he grinned up at him with a shine in his eyes. Immediately, Bass’s mood soured. “Hey it’s no fun if you enjoy losing,” he protested.

“I don’t!” Rock laughed. Bass raised an eyebrow, but the prince didn’t elaborate.

“Whatever ya say, loser.”

He won that game.

He won the one that followed, and the game following it, too. And yet still, despite minor grumblings from the prince after each “checkmate,” his grin only seemed to grow. It wasn’t a constant fixture, _thank fuck,_ but there was something suspicious with the amount of joy he was radiating. No one minutes away from losing their fourth game in a row should’ve been smiling quite as much.

It should’ve freaked him out — and it did, to a slight extent — but there was something annoyingly infectious to it.

He should’ve known better than to trust him.

On his fifth game, Rock caught him off guard. That was why he found himself cornered, with his knight too far to aid his king, and Rock’s bishop in a pincer attack with his rook. _That was why,_ and not because the prince was starting to figure out his tactics.

“You’re trying to distract me!” He growled, placing the chessmen back in their original positions.

Rock laughed — but not unkindly, “and how exactly am I doing _that?”_

“You’re _smiling._ Like, always. It’s fuckin’ distracting.”

This time, the prince seemed to be holding back his laughter. “Of course. It’s all part of my grand scheme to win a chess match, you see.”

He grumbled, but fell silent when they started the sixth game.

 _Which he somehow fucking lost,_ despite full concentration.

 _“Okay,_ how the fuck are you doin’ that!?”

“Winning?” Rock’s face betrayed his teasing. Bass was having none of it.

“Yes! It’s bullshit!” He exclaimed, standing up. Rock remained seated, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “Rematch. None of my retched distractions, this time. Humour me.”

Bass won that game.

He growled, “you were goin’ easy on me.”

“No, Bass,” Rock spoke with exasperation — and something else. Something that softened his words, and made the general giddy.

“Rematch.”

“Do you _want_ me to win?” He grinned, nevertheless returning the pieces to the board.

Bass snorted. It couldn’t have been farther from the truth, but — but he _did_ want Rock to keep playing. And, for him to be Rock’s opponent.

This was nice.

Rock won the next game.

The prince might’ve been staring at the ceiling, but his mind wasn’t in his chambers.

It was on the general, someplace else in the castle; on the interactions of the day, and the air between them.

It wasn’t tense, anymore. Or perhaps it was — but he attributed that to Bass’s clumsiness in social interactions. Rather, it felt comfortable. It didn’t matter how much the general snarled, snarked, or hissed: Rock knew none of it was malevolent, anymore.

It felt comfortable.

Was he making friends with him because of personal interests, or the general’s wellbeing?

Yes, amicable terms between them could certainly prolong his country’s existence, but how long would that last? Would it last until an argument, a fight, then dissolve?

Or perhaps — perhaps Bass had less say in the army’s affairs than Rock had previously hazarded.

And he didn’t know which scared him more: the thought of an immature, violent asshole with the world at his command-

Or that of a man Rock knew too little about, puppeting his son.

Bass gasped, eyes flying open.

It took a moment for his breathing to calm down, but he sighed when it finally did.

He couldn’t even remember what the nightmare was about.

Moonlight shined in from the window in his room. He’d forgotten to draw the curtains that night.

Last night, perhaps. Was it technically morning yet?

In his otherwise dark chambers, the ghostly pale illumination tinged the furniture grey. It seemed bright, too bright: he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep with the moonlight shining so.

He’d get up, draw the curtains, then fall back asleep. Easy.

Except as he did so, and returned to his bed, his eyes refused to close for longer than a minute.

 _Fuck,_ he grumbled internally.

He spent a moment longer wondering if sleep would return, before sighing and turning back towards the window.

Naturally, his thoughts wandered to that _fucking prince._

Only he wasn’t sure if Rock was a ‘fucking prince’, anymore. In the literal sense — in the definition of royalty, of blood — he was. But to Bass? He wasn’t sure if he could continue brushing him off as someone he didn’t care about.

And _fuck_ , that made it sound gay.

But it was clear he cared. It didn’t matter whether it was mushy care or cautious care; his mind was eternally on the, well-

The fucking prince.

Groaning into his pillow, Bass squinted his eyes shut. This was what happened when he couldn’t fall asleep, and he hated it. Well — he didn’t hate _this._

He hated the guilt, he hated the anger, he hated the hate: he hated to _think._ Because his thoughts pulled no punches, even if he assured himself he could handle all the blows.

This night, though, was different. This night, he wasn’t sure what he was feeling.

But it had to do with Rock.

The fucking prince.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo, bitches! Bet y'all didn't expect an update so early, but I've figured out a new update schedule. New chapter on the 10th, 20th, and 30th of every month. The chapters are a bit shorter, but oh well. Also, I have a backlog so should anything happen y'all should still get new chapters

The halls that led to the throne room were exactly as grand, imposing, and extravagant as the rest of the castle, but it was the knowledge of what lay beyond the tall doors that instilled the fear within Rock’s gut.

The doors, similar to those in the entrance of the dining hall, protested lowly as they were pushed open. It was the groan of a monster awakening, it was a warning to dissuade the prince from his intentions.

But he loved his people, so he continued.

Wily didn’t look regal from where he sat upon his throne. Bored, lackadaisical, threatening—the last was likely the prince’s anxiety, but a healthy dose of caution seemed warranted.

“Rock.”

“Sir Wily.”

The dictator cocked his brow, eyes searching through the room before they landed on the tense prince. “Sure, why not. Well, then. Why are you here?”

 _To ask a question_.

Only: how precisely was he to pose one to a violent dictator? Should he be blunt? Would the plain-speaking man appreciate it? Or perhaps, should he choose his words carefully, so as not to upset the most powerful man on the continent?

“Well?”

Time grew short, so Rock blurted out the question with as much confidence as he could muster. “I wish to voice a query of mine. Is it you who decides the fate of nations? Do you pick which kingdoms your army will invade?”

Wily drawled. “Yes. Was that it?”

He paused, then nodded curtly. His muscles were stiff when he bowed, “it was. Thank you, sir.”

He left the throne room in a hurry.

Rock had been quiet today: Bass hadn’t seen him at all apart from an awkward lunchtime. The newfound distance between he and the prince had confused him, then annoyed him, and now he felt the pangs of hurt.

Companionless and bored, he’d turned instead to wine for entertainment. It had helped, at first.

He was now discovering that more did not equal better.

(He was now discovering that he was a fucking _sad drunk.)_

A sound broke through the mist of intoxication, and he blinked. Cradled loosely in his hand, a wine glass sloshed half-empty as he placed it back on his desk. Beside it now, a bottle was drained nearly to completion.

Glancing around, he realised the sound had been that of his door opening.

“Bass? What are you- _is that wine?”_

Rock stood in the entrance, wide-eyed.

“No,” he protested. He couldn’t tell whether his words were slurring or not. “It’s _blood._ Get it right, jackass.”

The prince stepped over the threshold with a furrowed brow. “Why are you drinking? I- is it because I’ve been avoiding you?”

Well that confirmed it, then. Bass growled. _“No.”_

Rock stopped a pace away from the general, watching tepidly as he reached out to down the rest of the glass’s contents. “…It’s cause it made me feel better.”

At first.

That softened the prince, for some fucking reason, and his brow smoothened out while his eyes glanced away. “Ah. My apologies. I didn’t-“ Rock paused, wincing. “Well, I did- but I didn’t mean to _hurt you_ , I simply needed to, ah…”

Bass watched through half-lidded eyes as the prince’s face grew hot and crimson. Sighing, he put his head on the desk. “Whatever. I don’t care.”

Behind him, he could almost fucking _hear_ Rock stumble over the words in his head. He did that a lot. Always considerate, always halting. He was pretty sure it annoyed him. Right now, though, it gave him a moment of silence that he knew he’d need.

Rock always paused before breeching a topic neither truly wished to discuss.

“You’re not in full control of your army.”

Was that a jab? Fuck him.

“No, I’m not. Do you want a medal of honour, or was that an opening statement to something even dumber?” He hoped it sounded as good out loud as it did in his head, but grumbling it at the desk drawer probably wasn’t that eloquent.

Rock took a step closer. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” He croaked. Raising his head from his arms, he watched Rock hesitate out of the corner of his eye.

“For avoiding you,” Rock replied gently. Like silk. Why was the prince always so benign? “I just needed some time to get my thoughts in order.”

 _Thoughts?_ Were they about him? Because he’d found _his_ thoughts full of Rock during his absence.

“About what? Do-“ Bass stopped himself, then regretfully stood up. He took a proper look at the prince: red face, averted gaze, bitten lip. His right thumb flicked his index in a steady rhythm, as if tossing a coin back and forth. _“Did_ they have anything to do with me?”

Rock blinked, meeting his gaze. His brows furrowed once more, and he pondered for a moment. “No. Yes. Indirectly. My thoughts weren’t _centred_ on you, but now they’re all sorted out, I assure you.”

Bass cocked a brow; his intoxicated state only made the current conversation harder to navigate. “And what, then, _were_ they about?”

Rock sighed, glancing at the bed longingly. Intercepting the look, Bass sat on it and motioned the prince over.

He sighed when he sat down, relaxing visibly. “It won’t sound good. It won’t sound like something a friend should do.”

Friend. There was that word again. He was starting to think Rock truly meant it.

“I don’t really care,” he lied.

Rock side-eyed him, then sighed again. Bass subconsciously edged closer to the prince.

“You’re not in full control of your army—don’t take that the wrong way. I mean, you did, but- oh, never mind. I’d flubbed my words; I was talking about where your army attacks. Which nations, kingdoms, so on and so forth.” Rock peeked at him, but Bass’s drink-addled mind didn’t yet see what was being implied.

The prince continued. “I- I’d hoped I could convince you not to attack Abel. You’d made it seem as if I could. But Wily—your father has the final say in these matters, doesn’t he?”

Bass’s eyes darkened.

“Oh, _please._ ‘Final say’ my ass, he’s the _only_ say. It’s his way or an early grave.”

They’d only been- _friends,_ for a day or two, but it still hurt to know that everything had just been to win his favour.

It was his fault. _He’d_ given that fucking prince hope _._ “So yeah. You _can_ convince me otherwise. Nearly fuckin’ did, too, but you were convincing the wrong asshole.”

Rock stared. The heat that spread through Bass wasn’t new, but this was the first time he disliked it.

_Shame._

“Shut up,” he hissed, and stumbled to his feet.

“Bass?” Rock was still looking at him, but he wasn’t looking back. He could feel the prince’s gaze on him as he stormed away.

“Bass!”

The general hesitated at the entrance. Despite the fog of wine, he could still hear the concern in Rock’s voice.

The general glanced over his shoulder, eyes searching Rock’s.

He nearly sighed in relief, but the prince knew that the- the _hope_ in his eyes would only last as long as he kindled it.

As long as he _affirmed it_.

He didn’t know what had angered the general, but he’d do better. It’d been an odd day, but he’d never forgive himself if he added _‘losing Bass’_ to his list of grievances.

“Please? Come back, we can talk. I- I’d like to talk with you.” He stuttered, but his words—and gaze—held conviction. Bass stared, then turned fully.

“…Okay,” he allowed.

This time, Rock _did_ sigh in relief, and he grinned as the general neared with caution. Patting the spot beside him, Bass sat with a huff.

“I’m sorry,” Rock guessed.

Bass huffed. His tone was bitter and his shoulders slumped, “You don’t even know why you’re sorry.”

It was true, so he smiled sheepishly. “True, but I will if you tell me.”

Bass looked at him. A long moment passed between them, and Rock felt like letting out a breath he wasn’t holding when the general turned away.

“Did you- were we only friends because you thought I was powerful?”

Rock felt his eyes widen, then narrow in conviction. _“No.”_

No.

That answered last night’s question, then. He could still pretend as if he’d just lied to placate the dangerous man—but he didn’t feel in danger around Bass, and he didn’t benefit strategically from staying friends.

No, he’d answered because it was the truth.

“No,” he repeated.

Bass startled, then settled with a hint of a smile. “Oh yeah? Good. That’s good.”

A silence befell them, and while it was because neither knew what to say, it felt oddly content.

“Good,” Rock agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyo! Next chapter is when things really heat up :3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Adelphius in the last chapter for commenting, that really motivated me! Also kosei my girl, thanks for the continued support!

He thrust forward.

The wood narrowly stopped short as his opponent dashed back, panting. The prince retaliated with a wide swing, which he parried with ease.

Bass knew he was grinning, and he knew he had a fire in his eyes that made him seem deranged.

But he didn’t give a shit. Rock wasn’t as bad of an opponent as he’d been expecting. Despite the fact that the prince had yet to land a hit on him, and that if they were using real swords Rock would’ve invariably _died,_ he was having fun. Genuine _fun._

In that moment, a spar seemed to be the best idea he’d ever had.

“Wider stance!” He instructed, grinning as Rock obeyed.

The prince yelled out between mouthfuls of air. “Can we— _ah,_ can we take a break yet?” In response, Bass slashed at his side. _“Fuck_ no! Aren’t you having fun?”

Rock stumbled backwards, nearly falling over in his clumsy (and ineffective) dodge. “Can’t- say that I am, _ah-“_ He was gripping his abdomen tightly, squeezing his eyes shut.

Bass gave him a moment to recover, edging closer. Rock reassumed a half-hearted stance, sword held like a lifeline in his hands.

The general circled him with careful, deliberate steps. Jabbing forwards, he frowned when the sword made definite, not-so-gentle contact.

The prince’s eyes flew open, and he hunched over. Bass hesitated, a metre away, weapon held loosely in his grip.

Was this a ploy to get his guard down? If so, it was some very good acting.

Rock crumpled.

Very, _very_ good acting.

“Oh shit,” the general cursed. Rock wasn’t panting anymore. In fact, he wasn’t breathing at all.

“Oh _fuck,”_ crouching down and rolling the prince onto his back, he could feel something horrible build inside him.

Rock stared at him, eyes wide. His complexion was twisted, mouth parted mid-gasp.

“Rock?” He didn’t let his voice warble. He refused to, even as his gloved hands gripped the prince’s biceps too tightly. “Are you- Okay? No, of course you’re not, fuck. Can you breathe? _Agh-“_

The prince’s gaze wasn’t focussed. His lips moved, but there was no sound.

“Shh, don’t talk; _breathe,_ asshole!”

And he did.

Relief flooded through them both as Rock gasped. Bass hesitated over him, unsure if he should move away. He didn’t want to.

“Thank shit, you’re fine. You’re fine, right?”

The prince nodded weakly. They spent a few seconds in silence as Bass waited for Rock’s breathing to even out. The general sat over him, eyes scanning the prince’s body despite no sign of injury.

“It was my solar-“

“-Plexus. Yeah, I guessed.” Bass sighed, finally moving away. He sat back casually, but his hands still yearned to touch his prince.

_Wait-_

“So you knew I’d be fine,” Rock laughed. It was breathless, and the general frowned. “Well, no. I didn’t know if you’d start breathing again-“ He stared down Rock’s incredulous look, “- _in time._ You could’ve fainted, or something. I dunno!”

The prince rolled his eyes, but said nothing. He didn’t make any move to get up.

“…Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Bass glared at a tree. “It’s not fine. That was dangerous. The whole thing was dangerous—I shouldn’t have even suggested we do this. Now both our afternoons are ruined.”

“It was fun,” Rock protested.

Bass glanced at him with a snort. “Not what you said during the spar.”

“I was lying.”

This time, he turned fully to stare at the prince. “What?”

“I was lying,” he repeated.

His stare was met by Rock, who narrowed his eyes in challenge.

Bass huffed, glancing away hurriedly. “Whatever,” he snorted, but his smile was real.

Rock grinned when the general acquiesced, looking away as well.

The scenery wasn’t bad. Their spar had taken place inside the guard’s barracks, but even they were decorated with lovingly trimmed hedges, trees, and flowers. The sky was combed with cirrus clouds, and the sun beat down on both of them.

It was spring; the breeze cooled the sweat on his brow, and he fought the rise of goosebumps. Beside him, Bass seemed unbothered.

Without his uniform covering every surface but his extremities, Rock could admire the definition in his arms.

“You’re not cold?” He asked, prying his eyes from Bass’s muscles.

“No.” He glanced over, eyeing up the prince with a furrowed brow. “Are you? We should head inside if you are.”

“Yeah,” he answered.

He didn’t know where this newfound gentleness was coming from, but he’d bask in it while he could.

They hurried indoors with Bass hovering at his side, walking past the living room. When Rock sent him a questioning look, he answered with a huff. “I don’t care if you say you’re fine, I still wanna get you checked out.”

Rock snorted, but made no move to hide his grin.

Bass brought him to the physician’s quarters, which the prince followed him into after only a moment’s hesitation.

The room itself was unimpressive. There was a bed, many cabinets, some chairs and a bureau with a man sitting at it. He looked up from the papers on his desk, cocking a brow towards Bass.

“He’s fine.”

Bass bristled. “Well at least _check_ first.”

The man rolled his eyes, complying hesitantly. “Fine. Go on then, just take a seat on the bed and we’ll see.”

Rock complied, watching as the physician neared with Bass in tow.

“Is this the only medical room in the castle?” Rock asked. “It seems a bit- dainty.”

“Small’s the word you’re looking for,” the man grumbled. “And yes, it is—but only because there’s a hospital just outside the castle’s walls, with direct access via passageway. Now, off with your tunic. I’ll need to see any alleged wounds to heal them.”

Rock glanced at the physician, then moved his focus to Bass—who made no move to leave. Hesitating a moment longer, the prince removed his tunic hurriedly. He could feel Bass’s gaze on him despite determinedly not meeting it.

Why was he watching him so avidly? There wasn’t much to look _at._ He was neither fat nor thin. There was vague definition in spots, but a lifetime of bare-minimum exercise had cemented him as a ‘slim’ body figure. And _yet._

The physician broke him from his train of thought. “Couple bruises, but you’ll be fine. I’d offer you something to dull the pain, but I doubt you’re in any.” He waited a moment, giving the prince time to refute him.

When he didn’t, the man rose and shot a look at the general. “No clue why you brought him in, but he’s fine.”

Bass nodded.

Belatedly, Rock noticed his tunic beside him and shoved it back on.

The general had left for ‘a dumb fucking meeting’ shortly after the visit to the physician, which had left Rock with nothing to do and a newfound sense of loneliness.

Like a moth drawn to light, he’d wandered to the gardens.

And it wasn’t a surprise. In Abel, the castle was built on a cliff. Sprawling gravel pathways and manicured hedges simply weren’t an option.

Despite the ghastly scars of poverty below—or rather, due to—there was beauty in Wily’s castle.

The balustrade was as peaceful a spot as it had been three days prior. This far up, it was easy to imagine everything was as beautiful as the garden. The noblemen’s palaces were gorgeous, the mess of rooftops beyond the wall charming, and the rolling hills of farmland calm.

Of course, he wasn’t fooled. It was simply nice to imagine.

Rock wondered if, by standing idly in the castle’s beauties, he was condemning his people to a life of ugliness. Almost a week had passed, and very little time had been spent on saving his country. Was it too late to negotiate with Wily?

He didn’t want to. Bass had a flippant shell and kinder interior; Wily had a blasé air of mundane sadism. Talking with Bass was fun; talking with Wily made him shiver.

He closed his eyes and sighed.

His comfort mattered very little, in the end. He won’t stand idly.

“You alright?” The voice startled him, and he snapped to the side to stare at Bass. He grinned back.

“You frightened me,” he muttered.

“No shit.”

Rock smiled, “What was the ‘dumb’ meeting about?”

“Dumb _fucking_ meeting. You’re missing the emphasis.”

“Of course,” he allowed. “That doesn’t, however, answer my question.”

Bass’s mood soured. “Yeah, well. I don’t particularly want to.”

Rock shot him a bemused glance.

He sighed. “Look, I had to talk with my dad for an hour straight. I don’t particularly think anyone would feel conversational after that.”

“And yet you’re talking to me?”

Bass cocked his brow. “Yeah, I am. What about it?”

“Nothing,” Rock hastily lied. He fought a blush off vigorously, which left an oddly comfortable silence between them. Bass glanced at him, then followed his gaze to the city and countryside beyond.

The general watched people bustle on sidewalks, and horses drag carriages through the cobblestone thoroughfares. The city was alive beneath them.

Cities didn’t die.

They bled, they fell, but they never truly died. Bass had seen cities reduced to ashes, but he knew that people still lived there. Still _survived._ No amount of fire and no amount of steel could bring a city further than to its knees.

It’s something he admired about people. It didn’t matter if they were behind a sword and shield or behind a bar—people persevered.

Beside him, Rock gazed at the clouds.

He looked ethereal, in his ostentatious garments and relaxed pose. The wonder in his eyes was beautiful. Mesmerising.

Bass wondered if Abel would persevere.

Because he knew Rock would. He simply _had to._ He had no other choice, and Bass hated that he was the reason.

He’d realised, that afternoon as Rock struggled to breathe, that losing Rock would hurt.

So now, he was savouring the moments he had with the prince.

Because he knew they wouldn’t last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They r cute.


	8. Chapter 8

He hadn’t thought this out.

A candle illuminated the vellum laying upon his desk. It was blank, despite the inkwell placed beside it, and the quill he held in his hand.

A letter. He needed his sister to know Masterium’s tactics if they were to have any hope of surviving a war.

He’d have liked to think that, handed to a servant, they could be trusted to post it with confidentiality. But the reality was that any communication outbound— _especially_ any sent by him—would reach Wily.

Which made this all a lot harder.

He let out a long, suffering sigh, then stood up. Moonlight illuminated his path to the door, and he left his room.

His steps down the hallway dragged slightly, and his eyelids weighed too much. He didn’t know what his destination was, but he knew he’d be comfortable there. Away from the stifling pressure, away from the imminent war.

The land surrounding Bass was painted red, brown, and silver. Feeling as if his boots were glued to the ground, he forced his feet forwards.

And tripped on a corpse.

The man wore armour sullied with dirt and blood. His nation’s colours were barely visible on his shield.

And yet, Bass knew he’d died for him.

The battlefield wasn’t like most he’d seen. Mountains towered above him, casting shadows across each other in the warm afternoon.

And yet despite the pleasant day, the horror of death made him shiver.

Trudging forward, he wandered aimlessly through the plains. Bodies littered the once-picturesque landscape, and the world smelt of decaying flesh. It was silent; no crows fed on the plentiful bodies of the fallen, and none were alive to make noise. He stood upon a mountain of soldiers, each as dead as the next—but he didn’t know if he was the exception.

It was in this absolute quiet that he heard a distant neigh of distress. To his right, a horse kicked at the dirt below it. It snorted as he approached, and he caught sight of a corpse lying forward against its neck.

The man wasn’t wearing armour, but an arrow protruded from his chest nonetheless.

Stumbling towards him, Bass pulled him off the mount with a grunt of effort.

He stared at him, eyes wide. Rock stared back.

Bass gasped, sitting up in his bed as a trickle of sweat ran down his brow.

_Blood. Mountains. Rock._

The nightmare was fading faster than he could recall it, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth nonetheless.

The door opened.

Rock stood at the entrance, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. When he lowered them, he seemed as bemused as the general. “Bass?”

“Rock?”

A dreary pause reverberated throughout the room, and the prince frowned. “Did you have a nightmare?”

He nodded slowly. “Did you?”

Rock blinked. “I- no.”

He looked unsteady on his feet, so Bass beckoned him over. He sat on his bed, looking at him as if he was a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.

Bass scooted over to make room for Rock, who turned to face him completely, cross-legged.

“Did you have something you wanted to ask me?” Bass cocked a brow.

The prince ruminated the question for a long, lethargic moment. “Yes,” he confirmed, “are you planning to attack Abel?”

Bass grimaced, squirming uncomfortably at the pang in his heart. Rock was cocking his head inquisitively, innocently, and Bass leant forwards subconsciously. Had he posed the same question when they were both more awake, Bass wouldn’t have thought twice of his answer.

And yet despite that second thought, his answer remained the same—he couldn’t afford to tell the truth, even if they both saw through it.

“No,” he murmured.

Rock’s half-lidded eyes looked at him with an expression he couldn’t decipher.

“Alright,” he nodded, and lied down.

Bass blinked, unsure what to make of the prince now sound asleep in his bed. “Rock?”

No reaction.

Grinning tiredly, the general lied down beside him and brought the covers over the both of them.

“Goodnight.”

Bass woke up alone.

It took him a moment to realise why that was abnormal, and a moment longer to recognise the flash of loneliness as what it was.

Smothering it with anger, he flipped onto his other side.

Morning found Rock once more at his desk, and once more at a loss.

Despite what his overtaxed self had thought last night, visiting Bass hadn’t helped. When he awoke that morning, he’d had more doubts than when he’d fallen asleep.

Was Bass lying?

Accepting defeat with a sigh, he stood up and headed for the passageways he knew he’d find Tundra prowling.

Arriving at his destination, he walked through the library’s grandmother clock with a glance backwards. The books stored among the shelves could fit the knowledge of an empire—and evidently, it did. Despite a thorough exploration, he’d yet to discover a ‘fiction’ section.

A furtive glance later, he shut the clock behind him.

It only took a moment for Tundra to appear. He neared with a sly smile, raising his hand in greeting. “Prince, splendid to see you. Care for some tea?”

“Tundra,” he nodded, “naturally.”

The drink was scalding hot and fruity, and it washed away the stress as it slipped down his throat.

“Delicious,” he noted with a sigh.

“Indeed,” Tundra agreed, “but that’s not what you came here for, is it?”

The reminder soured his mood, and his next sip tasted vaguely bitter. “I can’t appreciate time with my friend?” He quipped. Tundra chuckled, “well you were groaning your every grievance to a blank letter earlier today; I’d simply assumed otherwise.”

Rock briefly tensed up, but reminded himself that they were allies.

“Well, I’m sure you knew where the letter was headed, and extrapolated from there.” He masked a hint of bitterness with a smile. The servant nodded, smiling back. “Oh, I did. But I wanted to hear it from you.”

His features softened, and he briefly placed his hand on the prince’s knee. “You can trust me.”

Rock shook his head, sighing. Nonetheless, he explained. “I know some of the strategies that will be used against my country. _I know them,_ and yet I can’t hope to warn my people in time by sitting idly in this castle. I need to tell them, but-“

He sighed. “Letters will be intercepted, and I can’t leave the castle without suspicions being raised. There’s no good method of doing this.”

He paused, struck by a sudden thought. “This is the right thing to do, right? I- alerting my country of the method to fight back is morally good. I’m not the villain, am I?” He grew more desperate with each second, then more doubtful.

 _Was_ this the correct route? Perhaps it would only prolong the fighting, raise the death toll. Perhaps Masterium’s victory was inevitable, and resisting it would only hurt more innocents. He hated each doubt that entered his mind, and hated that they weren’t fully implausible.

A hand on his shoulder snapped him from his thoughts.

“Of course you aren’t. No one harbouring good intentions is a villain, Rock.” Tundra’s expression was resolute and firm.

“…Thanks,” Rock grinned hesitantly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Tundra nodded.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” the servant began, “gather a little more information of the planned invasion—directly from the document, if you must. You most likely don’t have the full picture as it is. Once you finish, I’ll make sure to send your letter inconspicuously.”

The servant placed his teacup back on the saucer.

Rock gaped. “You’re conspiring against your own country?”

Tundra huffed, “technically, yes. But that’s only because the country I love no longer exists. And besides,” he said with a wink, “I’d rather be on the right side of history.”

Rock nodded mutely.

“Well go on then,” Tundra urged, “don’t make your sister wait.”

He nodded again.

Between the two men in the room—or rather, the man, and the senile _fuck_ that was his father—a map lay flattened on the table. Red filled every iota of land with one exception: the blue mountainous kingdom to the north-west of Masterium.

Such was the topic of discussion.

“Have you even given a thought as to what the fuck we’re gonna do with Rock?” He growled.

Wily shot him a look. “Oh it’s ‘Rock’, now, is it? Yes, I have, you fucking brat. We’ll just kill him once the façade is over.”

A spike of hatred flashed through the general. “No, we won’t.”

Bass knew that this protectiveness for Rock was unavoidably traitorous. But he didn’t care, and he could afford to throw his weight around—without him, his father’s military conquests would implode.

“What do you mean by that, you little shit?” Wily snapped. “I don’t like this bullshit friendship the two of you are developing. I-“

Bass snarled. “This was _your_ dim-witted idea in the first place, you hag. And I don’t give two shits that you don’t _‘approve’_ of my friendship with him, cause that’s coming from somebody with one less friend than me: _none.”_

“So what do you propose then, eh? Indemnity? A political marriage? I highly doubt Abel would be any keener on becoming part of the empire, then. Keep your focus on where it actually matters, brat.”

Bass harrumphed, crossing his arms and leaning further against the table. “I’m not giving in, Wily. He _isn’t_ getting executed.”

His father grew more agitated. “It wasn’t a rhetorical question! What _are_ ya gonna do with him otherwise?”

“He doesn’t need to die!” Bass shot back. “Every _fuckin’_ solution is execution, invasion, and oppression with you! I’d be more willing to help invade Abel if there wasn’t genocide involved!”

Wily leaned in threateningly. “One: the genocide is _your_ doing, not mine. Two: you don’t have a choice in whether or not you ‘help’ me. Don’t get any illusions.”

“I-“ The general pulled back, lips pressed tightly together. “I do what’s necessary.”

“You actually believe that?”

 _“Fuck. You.”_ Bass spun around, marching for the door.

“Hey, get back here!” Wily called after him. “We’re not done yet, you piece of shit!”

Bass slammed the door shut behind him.

Last time Rock had visited Masterium’s throne room, he’d hoped it would _be_ his last time.

Which was why his fingers hadn’t stopped twitching since hearing Wily wished to speak with him once more.

The servant who led him there—nervously insisting that _no, truly, he must—_ seemed just as uncomfortable as the prince he was leading. His eyes remained set determinedly on the hallway ahead, and answered Rock’s questions with short, clipped answers or blatant _‘I’m not sure, your highness’_ s.

They arrived at the entrance, which the poor man pushed open with a steadying breath. “Sir Wily: prince Rock, as you requested.”

He bowed, and promptly scurried away.

Rock cast a final look at the retreating servant, wishing for little more than to be able to similarly flee without consequence. He steeled himself for the worst, and met Wily’s gaze as he stepped inside.

“What are you planning?”

Rock blinked. “Excuse me?”

The dictator narrowed his eyes, leaning forward in his throne. “What. Are you planning?” He enunciated. “No one makes friends with Bass without an ulterior motive. And it’s come to my attention that the two of you are buddying up.”

He left the implication unsaid. However much truth it might’ve held a week ago, now, it only served to anger the prince.

“Nothing. Sir,” he tacked on hastily, “he can be very pleasant company when he wants to be. Don’t undersell your son.”

“Pah, ‘son’. He’s a general, don’t _you_ undersell _him_. And who told you it was a good idea to lie to me, Rock? _Do you take me for a fool?”_ He took a subconscious step backwards when Wily stood up.

“No one and no, sir. I am simply not plotting anything. As an ambassador, it’s my job to develop friendships with people in this castle, on the behalf of our countries. Bass is no different, and I value our friendship.” The prince determinedly steamrolled through half-lies, face set in calm confidence despite the turmoil within him.

Wily’s eyes narrowed as he advanced on Rock. “Do you know how many people Bass has killed?”

“Millions,” the prince shot back with a steady tone and a mental wince.

“No. Not indirectly,” the dictator smiled. It chilled Rock to his core. _“Directly._ He often fights in battles himself, cutting down his enemies without second thoughts. Because I can assure you, the number is in the hundreds. How many people do you know? How many names can you tell me you’ve had conversations with, and does that number even come close to the number he’s murdered?”

He defended Bass unhesitatingly. “He doesn’t enjoy it.”

“He doesn’t _need_ to go to the frontlines, Rock. That’s his choice, that’s _his_ craving.” Wily reached him, slow jaunt stopping entirely. “Ask yourself, prince. Just _who_ have you befriended? How far are you willing to stretch your morals to further your pathetic kingdom’s goals for peace?”

“As far as I must,” the prince rebutted. “And I’ve befriended your son, Bass, in spite of his flaws and because of his virtues. _Goodbye_ , Wily.”

His tone left no room for argument, and he escaped with the burn of a glare on his back.

His visit to the war room had been as uneventful as he could’ve hoped, and the prince gazed at the written letter with mixed feelings.

But it was finished, so he passed it off to Tundra with a nod.

The servant nodded back, a torrent of several emotions crossing his face before he turned away.

Rock didn’t know why he felt as if he was betraying Bass. It wouldn’t be _betrayal_ unless (until) his friend decided to attack his home.

His heart, of course, refused to listen to logic.

Bass did most of his thinking when he wanted to least: in his bed.

His father was beginning to grow impatient. The strategy was impeccable, the army was abundant, and the clock was ever ticking. But even as the border grew more and more militarised, he refused to launch the attack yet.

Because until they came to an agreement on Rock, he knew the prince would be executed the day that he did.

_Rock._

There was another, more selfish, less tactical reason he continued to delay the invasion.

It didn’t matter if Rock lived or not; the prince would despise him the moment his country came under fire. And Bass didn’t blame him.

The trust that had grown between them felt luxurious, to him. A luxury that he hadn’t been able to afford, in the past. But he did now, despite everything, and in spite of every reason not to.

It was fickle, and it would break.

He rubbed his eyes angrily. There was no point crying yet.

He’d save that for when the inevitable actually happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this case, there's no calm before the storm :3


	9. Chapter 9

Bass marched to Rock’s chambers, fists clenched by his sides. The knuckles on his right hand were speckled lightly with blood and paint.

He threw open the prince’s doors, _“You contacted your sister!?”_

Rock jumped, then made a fist with the hand he held over his heart. “Who told you?”

 _“That doesn’t matter!”_ He yelled, taking a step into the room. “What the _fuck?”_

Rock shrunk away from him, but he kept his eyes on Bass’s.

“Well that confirms it, then!” He shot back. “You were lying to me, that night.”

 _Lying?_ What choice did he have?

“Of course I fuckin’ was! I couldn’t tell you the truth, you’d-“ _hate me._ “You’d do exactly what you just fucking did.”

He stood up, “it’s only natural that I would! It’s my people; I can’t abandon them! And besides-“ he paused, gaze hardening. “It wouldn’t have been betrayal until you attacked my home.” That line sounded rehearsed.

“I haven’t!” He yelled. _Pleaded._

“Yet.” Rock’s voice turned cold. “The letter on your desk, on that day in the gardens. You’re moving soldiers to the border. I’m not an _idiot_ , Bass.” His voice warbled slightly. “Tell me, general. What’s the logical next step?”

“I-“ Bass started. “I’m sorry.”

Rock shook his head. “Apologise to your heart’s content. I won’t be pacified by your words.” He stood up, walking past the general. He paused at the doorway, looking back at him, but Bass didn’t meet his gaze. “And I won’t stay, passively awaiting my execution. Goodbye, Bass.”

He turned around, but it was too late. Rock was gone.

How had it all fallen apart so quickly?

An hour ago, he’d been reading on his bed. Now he was in a dark alleyway that he truly should’ve known better than to try and hide in, surrounded by an unidentifiable stench.

He was lacking allies, and scared _._ He hadn’t stopped being scared since Bass had barged in.

He refused to let his mind linger on his name. He was in danger.

The bandits he’d attempted to flee from were undoubtedly near, and he felt as if his breathing was impossibly loud.

It had been safe travels through the nobles’ district. Beyond the city walls however, his colourful, silken garments attracted far too much attention.

A group of thuggish men rounded the corner, and he stifled a whimper.

“He went this way, I’m sure of it!” One of them growled. “He couldn’t ‘ave made it too far, this alley dead-ends after a while.”

If only he’d known _that_ earlier.

He pressed himself further back against the locked door of a side entrance, deep enough to obscure him, but visible enough to be an _awful_ hiding spot from up close.

A man was nearing his location. The rest of the group was following further behind.

_Extremely visible._

Oh god, he’d spot him immediately, wouldn’t he?

Rock shot out of the doorway, grabbing the shocked bandit’s head and smashing it into the opposite wall. His strength failed him, and there was only the dull _thud_ of a skull impacting wattle-and-daube too weakly to fracture bone.

He started running only moments before the man roared furiously.

The alleyway ended in a muddy, but relatively spacious garden. At least three doors led into it, and if he could enter one before the bandits caught up, he had an exponentially larger chance of escaping.

Unless the door _he_ chose was locked.

It was as that imposing thought dawned on him that he arrived at the dead-end, with the men only metres behind him. Choosing the doorway closest to him, he grabbed the handle and _pushed._

It opened.

Everyone stared as the prince flew into a tavern, hair dishevelled and immaculate clothes flecked with dirt.

Rock pushed himself off the floor, and pushed himself onwards.

The door he’d ran through slammed open again as his pursuers spotted him, giving chase once more.

Did they have _nothing_ better to do?

He burst into the main street with a pained groan; he’d never run for this long in his _life,_ and a stitch that felt more like a dagger wound was developing. Glancing up, the city gates towered over rooftops in the distance like a beacon.

They reinvigorated him, and he forced himself to sprint in their direction.

He spotted guards in the distance, vigilantly standing watch under the portcullis.

The thought that they wouldn’t be as keen letting him in as they had been letting him out struck him. He’d left the inner city well-kept. Entering it with frazzled hair and muddied clothes and _men pursuing him_ could prove less likely.

But at least they’d solve _one_ problem.

“Guards!” He yelled. It was quieter than he’d have liked it to be—his lungs _burned_ if he tried breathing too deeply—but he’d caught their attention nonetheless.

“Help!”

They levelled their spears in his direction. “Stay where you are!”

Rock dived for the ground, scrambling towards safety as the guards focussed their attention on his pursuers. The air was tense for an agonising moment, but the guards visibly relaxed as the bandits admitted defeat and fled.

One of them seemed to recognise him. “Oh—well shit, Arthur, it’s the prince!”

A bulky man turned to him. “What? Fuckin’ ‘ell, the one the general sent an order to retrieve?”

“Yeah!”

“Well then,” his friend laughed, stepping forwards. “Hey there, little prince. We’ll be taking you back home.”

Oh fuck.

“No! No, please, I-“

The two muscled men were magnitudes stronger than the exhausted prince, and he stopped struggling quicker than he cared to admit.

When Rock re-entered Wily’s palace, he did so as a convict.

The castle was far less beautiful underground.

Rock didn’t protest as he was pulled into the dungeons and thrown into a cell. He’d come to terms with his new reality before he’d even reached it. Now he’d play the joyless game of patience.

And he did.

Without any method to track time as it passed—there were no windows—he could only guess as to how long he waited.

It must’ve been an hour until Tundra walked into view. He held a lantern, lighting up the darkness and casting shadows.

“Rock,” he said, tone unclear. “There you are. I’ve borrowed the keys from the warden; it’s time you left this unprincely cell, _net?”_

He didn’t reply.

“You don’t seem too elevated at the notion?” Tundra cocked his head.

He kept his tone just as level as the servant’s, “Were it anyone else breaking me out, I most likely would be. Unfortunately, I’m not a fan of hypocrisy. It’s _your_ actions that led me here in the first place, Tundra.”

The man opened his mouth to retaliate, but ultimately decided against it. Hesitating, he held up the key. “I—I will apologise to you until any ill will is cleared up, once I get you away from this vile place-“

“You’re glossing over the fact that _you_ informed Bass of the letter, despite the fact that you had similarly encouraged me to write it! You could’ve informed Bass of my intentions without wasting my time. But you wanted to give me hope. And you wanted to crush it.” Rock accused.

Tundra was beginning to falter, but he stuck the key in the lock and twisted nonetheless.

“I’m not leaving a cell so that you may redeem yourself, Tundra. I will await my execution.” Rock stayed put, even as the door swung open with a sonorous screech. No guards came running.

“ _Pozhaluysta,_ there’s no need to be like this. No execution awaits you, Bass would never do that.” Tundra argued.

“And Wily?”

“He wasn’t informed of the full extent.”

Rock paused, then narrowed his eyes. “Who do you serve?”

“The general, I serve him. And he doesn’t wish to kill you. Or harm you. He’s confused,” the servant asserted.

Rock kept silent as he mulled over his escape.

“The letter was sent—your hope is not crushed, Rock.” Tundra’s voice was pleading.

“Why?”

“I come from a nation trampled by Wily. I don’t wish a similar fate upon yours.” The servant’s normally collected demeaner had evaporated entirely, and he stood awkwardly at the entrance to the cell.

“Oh,” Rock replied. He made no move to exit.

“Please, Rock,” Tundra tried. It sounded like a final attempt.

“No.”

In a rare display of defeat, Tundra closed the door and locked it. He stared at the key in his hand, then dropped it within reach of the bars. Rock didn’t reach for it.

“I’m sorry.” The servant murmured, and with that he disappeared.

Bass had contemplated visiting Rock in his cell, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Because he was scared.

Scared, ashamed, and angry that he was the former two, and angry that Rock had gone behind his back, but guilty because he’d proven to the prince that he’d made the right choice, because _he’d_ gone behind _his_ back-

Bass let out a suffering sigh that erred on the edge of a sob. But he didn’t cry. Because Bass didn’t cry.

He wanted so badly to apologise, but he knew that Rock wouldn’t forgive him. And he had no right to apologise, because he’d be forced to go through with the invasion, apology or not, and then no amount of ‘I’m sorry’s would suffice.

He wished there was a solution other than imprisonment. But his father wouldn’t allow him to ignore the issue, and as it was, he was pushing the general to ‘suck it up and hang him already’.

“Bass.”

He startled at Tundra’s voice, raising his head from his hands and searching the room with bleary eyes. They landed on the servant, in the doorway, expression unreadable. Almost unreadable: his entire form was tense.

“Tundra? If you came here with bad news I’ll fuckin’ deck you-“

“Follow me,” he interrupted. His tone was firm, and he walked out into the hallway. The general had no choice but to do as he was told.

Tundra led him down flights of stairs and into the courtyard, then to the barracks without a word. Bass stopped as he realised where he was being brought. “No, no fucking way. I’m not gonna-“ He grunted when the servant grabbed his wrist and continued.

“Hey! I said no! I am _not_ gonna talk with him!”

“You will,” Tundra ordered. “For your own good, and his, and for the love of all that is holy you two will _communicate._ Now stop making a fuss and _follow me.”_

The walls were dank, and the musty odour hit him hard. The dungeons were every bit as unpleasant as he’d hoped they weren’t, and his guilt doubled as the thought of Rock sitting in a cell, alone, struck him.

Tundra handed him a lantern. “Go. If I don’t hear conversation within the minute, I’ll lock you in there with him.”

He nodded hesitantly, “fine,” and set down the passage he knew led to the prince’s cell.

“Bass?” Rock’s voice called out from the end of the hallway. Quickening his pace, he stopped in front of the cell and winced. The prince sat in the back of his cell, staring at him. His voice had sounded hopeful at first, but now his expression was distrustful, guarded.

“How did you know it was me?” He asked, despite the larger issue at hand.

“Your footsteps are distinctive. They’re loud and confident.” A hint of a smile graced Rock’s lips, but it passed too quickly. The grimace that followed hurt him more than he cared to admit. “They’re brash, too. And petty, and cruel, and they betray your trust-“

 _“Rock,”_ he pleaded. His voice was dangerously unstable.

They fell silent.

His demeaner was inverse to that of the man Bass knew. His mouth was sealed tightly, his shoulders were hunched, and his tone was angry. He was inverse to the man Bass—liked. He’d really liked him, looking back.

And now he still did, possibly more so, but it was with the constant reminder that he wasn’t liked back.

“Why?” Rock whispered, voice similarly unsteady. “It’s your father who wants Abel gone. Why are you humouring him, if you don’t? Why am I in _here,_ if you don’t?”

“I don’t have a choice,” he replied. His voice was quiet and dejected. “He’s my father. He’s the ruler of Masterium. And he’s the soon-to-be ruler of the entire fucking continent-“

“You can stop that! You can just stop it here,” The prince insisted.

 _“I can’t!_ Don’t you understand that!?” He shouted, voice cracking. “I fuckin’ _can’t,_ because he can strip me of my power with a handful of words, because all of my power is based on soldiers that technically answer to _him_ , because _he wants you dead-“_

Bass cut himself off, breathing hard.

There was a pause as Rock contemplated the new information. “…Alright.” Rock nodded. “I think I know what to do.”

The general looked at him, eyes hopeful.

He nearly stopped himself. He nearly saw the look Bass was sending him and gave in, jeopardising his country. But he steeled his resolve with a sigh.

“But first, what’s your relationship with your father?”

The general hesitated, then frowned. “I already don’t like your fuckin’ plan.”

Rock nearly laughed, and nearly cried, but he did neither. “You wouldn’t. No matter what it is, it’ll involve slighting your father. He _does_ want me dead, Bass.” He reminded him gently.

“I,” Bass flustered, “I was exaggerating. He-“

“Wants me dead.”

The general sighed. “Yeah, but that’s not new. He wants half of everybody he knows dead, but he doesn’t kill them.”

“You haven’t yet answered my question,” Rock redirected. Outwardly, his tone was firm and unyielding—but inside he felt like the very foundation he was built upon had crumbled.

“Bad? I dunno. Shit? Awful? I don’t really see him as my dad, and he doesn’t see me as his son. I’m an asset to him, and he’s my boss. Not that he’s due any respect.”

The prince nodded thoughtfully. “Alright. What are your thoughts on never seeing him again?”

Bass snarled. “Are you kidding me? _You_ are _not_ killing him.”

Rock startled, but shook his head hurriedly. “No!” He guessed. “Exile. You’ll never see him again—if the exile _works,_ that is. Does that bother you?”

The general’s shoulders slumped. “I… don’t know,” he answered.

“Alright. That’s fine.” Rock assured.

Bass nodded. “You can’t stay here, you know,” he said.

The prince hummed. “I know.”

They grew silent.

“…Rock?”

Bass had sat down. They rested, eyes locked, separated only by a metre of space and iron bars.

“Yes?”

“I’m- _really_ sorry.”

The prince smiled gently. “I accept your apology, and I forgive you. It’s not your fault.”

Bass glanced away, scrubbing his eyes angrily. Rock blinked, edging closer. “Bass? It’s alright.”

“Don’t forgive me. It’s my fault. _Nothing’s fuckin’ alright.”_ He whispered brokenly. “We’re fucked. You’re fucked. I’m the _reason_ you’re fucked.”

He was right.

The silence stretched, and Rock readjusted his legs, feeling them loose blood circulation. He would’ve done just about anything to see Bass smile by now. “Well, I wouldn’t mind that,” he attempted with a waggle of his eyebrows.

That wasn’t a joke, he realised.

It wasn’t even particularly funny.

Bass stared at him, and he stared back. “Me neither.” The general cracked a smile, and Rock felt his cell brighten.

Neither said anything, and the silence was comfortable, for a while.

Bass would be lonely when he was gone, Rock realised.

“It’s not your fault. If the victim believes you innocent, then who are you to proclaim yourself guilty?” He sent a grin towards the general. “Please, don’t blame yourself.”

He continued, a comforting smile upon his lips. “And yes, you’re most likely right. We’re fucked, and not very much is alright, currently. But it won’t stay like this.”

“You’re a stubborn asshole,” Bass grinned, “and an optimistic one too. My favourite.”

His grin slipped.

“But this all sounds way too much like goodbye.”

“It isn’t,” Rock assured him, “not yet. We still need to find me a way out, and only once I’m past the point of no return will I bid you farewell.”

“We’re way past the point of no return, Rock.”

They both knew they were.

“Physically,” he specified with a huff.

“Yeah.”

Rock curled a hand loosely around the bars between them. He eyed the material murderously.

Bass placed his hand on Rock’s, squeezing it comfortingly.

Minutes passed, but neither moved away from each other.

They’d savour their time while it lasted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not Quite The Confession We Were Hoping For, But Oh Well.
> 
> These fucken two.
> 
> P.S. Chapter 9 is finished and should come out as scheduled, but chapter 10 is fighting me and at the worst possible time, too. I'll be leaving for holidays on the 29th and there might possibly be a gap between updates. Hopefully not, but just warning you.
> 
> Till next time, toodles! <3


	10. Chapter 10

The cell was lonely at night.

He contemplated the key beyond the bars with a glare. Technically, freedom was already his. All he had to do was reach out and grab it.

But the chances he’d make it out of the country alone were pathetic.

Guards patrolled his cell infrequently, and irregularly. It was almost as if every few hours, somebody remembered he existed and came to check he was still there.

In his cell, unmoving.

As he had been for the entire day.

It was cold, too. It shouldn’t have been—the air was pleasant—but the stone was uncomfortable, and it chilled him to his core as he tried to sleep. Hence why even as his eyelids struggled to stay open, he shifted restlessly.

Thoughts of Bass pestered him insistently, too, and that wasn’t helping. Rock didn’t know what the air between them was, now.

It had been an uncomfortable enlightenment, to know he harboured non-platonic attraction towards his friend.

He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to act on that particular _interest_ of his; they didn’t have very much time left. He didn’t want their final hours stifled by awkwardness.

Perhaps he’d simply act as if it hadn’t happened.

Bass didn’t think his bed was lonely until he realised he wanted Rock beside him.

He hated it. It was new, and different, and he never liked change—unless it was Rock. Then he didn’t mind it.

Unless it was Rock _leaving._ Then he _despised_ it.

He looked at the mirror on his desk. In it, he saw a lovestruck general gazing soulfully back at him. He blinked, and the expression shifted into one of mild annoyance.

Rock’s comment that evening had left him questioning if they were just friends, anymore. If he _wanted_ them to be just friends.

And then he began wondering if he’d even meant anything by the comment at all. Maybe it _was_ just an innuendo.

Rock didn’t _just_ make innuendos, though.

Either way, it didn’t change the fact that he’d thought about it. But his feelings were still muddled, and the hours of deliberation had done little to solve it. Still, he didn’t know if he truly _liked_ him. After all, the only way to find out would jeopardise a friendship he valued more than his life.

It wasn’t worth it, he decided.

And paid little heed to the quiet quailing in his heart.

His glare could’ve melted stone when he met with his father that morning.

Clearly, Wily was made of something far stronger than rock.

“Bass,” he acknowledged. “Will you explain to me why that pathetic excuse of a prince is _still alive?_ Go on, it’s an entertaining story, I’m sure.”

The general sneered. “Oh it is, just not one I’m that itching to tell. Fuck off.”

The man shifted from where he sat on his throne, visage darkening.

“Oh, is that how it is? That’s fine, then. Don’t tell me. All I need are results.” Bass stiffened. Wily smirked. “If that snivelling brat isn’t dead by midnight, I’ll throw you in there beside him—and then kill him anyway. Choose wisely, Bass.”

For a moment, the general nearly lost his temper.

Then, he made up his mind. “Fine.”

Wily sat back, his disgusting sneer widening. “Good.”

Bass summarily stormed out of the throne room, fists clenched and eyes blazing.

Arriving moments before the general, Tundra made a show of remaking his bed.

Bass walked into his quarters, pausing slightly at the unexpected visitor. “Tundra? What are you doing here?”

He only ever let himself be seen when he was needed, but amused himself with his charade for a moment longer. “Is it not clear? I am simply tidying your chambers. They’ve fallen into disarray since Rock attempted to flee.” He eyed the scattered papers on the general’s desk.

Bass grimaced. “Shut up. That’s not what I want to talk to you about.”

“You wish for my aid in helping Rock escape before you’re forced to kill him by midnight.”

He nodded. “Obviously, I wasn’t planning to. But you know Wily maybe even better than I do. If I said no, he’d have made sure I never saw Rock again, _ever_. And…“ He trailed off, eyes downcast. Tundra nodded.

“ _Da_. I already attempted, once, to offer him escape. He was stubborn. Perhaps now that the two of you are on more _agreeable_ footing, he will accept my proposal.” The servant rose to his full height, a whole head and hair taller than the general.

Bass nodded. “Probably. Hopefully. He better.” A thought crossed his mind, but he discarded it. “He won’t refuse.”

Tundra smiled. “Of course. Do you already have a plan?”

The general grinned back, “duh. That’s the one thing I’m good at _._ ”

Rock awoke with pains and cricks in places he didn’t know they could occur, and waited patiently for something to happen.

He was helpless, in here. He hated it.

But if there were two things he did well, it was waiting, and patience.

Even so, his face lit up when Bass walked into view.

He had visited Rock that afternoon with their plan. Now, as the clock’s hour hand strayed further past eleven with each new second, he retraced his steps.

Rock was asleep, this time. And seeing his face, unmarred by stress and anxiety-

It was a privilege.

He looked peaceful and calm, despite his foetal position on the floor. He didn’t deserve any of this.

And Bass didn’t really deserve him, either.

He shook his head. Fucking whatever. He’d cry when Rock wasn’t counting on him. He’d do that when Rock wouldn’t find out.

Reaching through the bars, he lifted the prince’s head from the ground with a delicate touch he didn’t know he was capable of. “Rock,” he whispered. “Wake up. It’s time.”

When he didn’t stir, the general moved his palm to cup his cheek. “Oi asshole,” he said in a soft murmur, “don’t make me do something drastic.”

Blinking his eyes open, Rock awoke lethargically.

“Get up. We’re getting you outta here.”

“Alright,” he yawned, sitting up as he stretched.

Innocent.

In the calm before the storm, their interaction felt dreamlike. Surreal.

Bass shoved the key into place and twisted it, wincing at the screech as the door swung open.

Rock hesitated, but stepped out carefully when Bass shot him a look.

“You okay?”

“I’m alright.”

His gaze lingered on the prince nonetheless.

Staring at the exit beyond the stairs, he stuck his hand out.

“…Bass?”

He flexed his fingers, glancing back at Rock with a red face he’d later blame on annoyance. “Hold it. I’ll lead the way.” And then, in a voice that sounded vaguely choked, “please?”

Rock blinked, then reached out and took the offered hand. He smiled lightly, following the general as he half-heartedly tugged him forwards.

Bass pushed the door at the top of the stairs open, watching guiltily as Rock inhaled the fresh air.

They crept through the castle grounds in the dead of night, avoiding the few soldiers that crossed their paths with baited breaths.

It should’ve been ridiculous. A general leading a convicted prince through a castle he was welcome in, avoiding guards that answered to him, smuggling a man that should have been his enemy out of a country his father ruled.

And yet it wasn’t, because he could almost _smell_ the growing anxiety Rock radiated.

They reached the stables without issue, and relaxed for the first time in ten minutes as they closed the door behind them.

Tundra stood expectantly beside a white stallion.

He nodded to them as they entered. “You’re both alive. _Khorosho._ I’ve packed the supplies necessary.”

Bass returned the nod, and turned to Rock. “That horse is quick and patient, you won’t need to brush up on any skills to get him going. And there’s everything you’ll need in the saddlebag. Food, drink—money, you’ll need that. There’s a cloak in there I want you to put on. It’ll make sure no one recognises you, and-“

“Bass.” Rock smiled. “I never thought I’d hear you ramble.”

The general huffed, glancing at the horse with feelings he couldn’t parse. Walking up to it, he retrieved the cloak and threw it to the prince. Rock caught it, throwing it over his garments quickly.

Bass patted the horse’s flank.

“Protect him,” he whispered.

He waited for Rock to near him, and helped him onto the saddle wordlessly.

“Tundra, you’ve created a distraction?” He reminded. The servant nodded. Rock turned to him, pausing for a moment before he spoke. “You never told me what exactly the distraction was.”

“And I never will,” he quipped, “because you’ll be out of this city before dawn. It’ll take weeks—three at most—to reach Abel, but you _will_ reach your castle safely.”

It was an order.

Rock hummed. “Naturally.”

“Despite how fun it’s been aiding your extrajudicial stunts, Bass, I do in fact have other matters to tend to. I must leave now.” Tundra walked up to the prince, placing a hand on his knee. Quietly, he murmured, “truly, I’m sorry.”

Rock stopped him from leaving with a hand on his shoulder. “I forgive you.”

“My thanks,” the servant smiled, and left the two alone.

“It really _is_ goodbye, this time.” Bass grunted.

“It is.”

“And I won’t ever see you again.”

“Unless there’s a peace treaty with Wily’s signature you haven’t told me about.”

The general smiled, but it was bittersweet. He’d miss his prince’s wit.

“I don’t want this to be goodbye.”

“Trust me,” Rock’s fingers twitched where he held them against his leg, “I don’t, either.”

Bass reached for the hand, clasping it in his firmly. He watched Rock’s face keenly for a reaction, realising without much fanfare that he wanted to kiss him.

The prince glanced away for a moment, wiping his eyes with the hand not currently holding on for dear life. “I’ll miss you.” He whispered, and Bass wanted little more than to hold him in his arms and never let go. He wished he’d never helped him onto the fucking horse.

“Yeah,” he said. “Same here.”

They were running out of time. “See you.”

“…See you,” the prince mimicked.

_See you later._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	11. Chapter 11

Rock rode the stallion through the castle, past unconscious guards, and over the cobblestone promenades of the nobles’ district. He blazed through the city gate, unheeding of the yells of guards that followed him, and out of the slums beyond the wall.

He didn’t stop until no one was following him, and little else but farmland surrounded him.

He finally allowed himself to look back.

The capital was a haze of brown and black and white, and atop it, the castle who’s dungeons he’d occupied not hours ago stood forebodingly.

Exhausted, he fed the horse and laid out a temporary bed. Fatigue pulled his eyelids closed as he lied down.

He’d worry about the consequences tomorrow.

He’d worry about Bass, and Wily, and the war, and his country, and his family.

But mostly, he’d worry about Bass.

The general got very little sleep last night.

Between Rock’s grand escape, and his concern for the prince as he watched (and imagined, and lamented) him riding away, his shut-eye had been pathetic.

Which made the early-morning beratement all the worse.

“You had something to do with this.” Wily accused. “I _will_ find out, Bass. You had _one_ fucking job!”

“My _‘one fucking job’_ is telling my troops where to attack, and when.” He cut in. _“Your_ one fucking job, is cleaning up the messes you create.”

“The only mess I created was _you._ So you better shut that mouth of yours before you find yourself sleeping in a cell.”

Bass mindlessly retorted, unwilling to stay fully conscious during one of Wily’s trademarked arguments. He always made threats, and never carried them out. Being irreplaceable had its advantages.

Resigning himself to another morning of loud sounds and headaches, he watched the clouds saunter by in the sky beyond the windows.

Rock had tried, for as long as possible, to stay away from the cities he passed. But now his food was running out, and a storm was on the horizon.

The next city he reached was small enough to be sufficiently ignored by the national government, which ticked the only requirement he had. Besides that, it was relatively clean, and pleasantly didn’t smell like every bodily fluid at once.

The market in the main square was amply crowded to allow him—a vaguely suspicious hooded figure—to buy the items he needed without hassle. As rain began to pour, however, he cut his trip short and hastened to find an inn.

His cloak was soaked through by the time he arrived at his destination. ‘Masterium’s finest’, the sign read. ‘Masterium’ was hastily scrawled over what must’ve been some other nation’s name, before.

Stepping in, whatever glory it might’ve once boasted (of which he doubted there ever was) had long vanished. Instead, the air reeked of cheap beer and cheaper ale, and the room was loud with drunken laughter. The space was poorly lit, and from where the prince stood in the doorway, he was having second thoughts.

But when the rain finally overpowered his sensibility, he stepped in and hung up his cloak.

Hurrying away from the commotion, he rented a room with reception. Clearly, it had meant to serve as a tavern first, but the small accommodation was cheap if nothing else.

Cheap, and very, _very_ loud.

He’d attempted to read his boredom away for five minutes before he gave up. If he was lucky, the storm would pass as quickly as it had come, and he’d be out of the city by dawn. Until then, however, he had the rest of the evening to kill.

And in a city like this, that meant going downstairs and drinking ‘till time passed quicker.

Rock wandered to the bar with tepid glances at every loud noise. Surrounding him, muscled men slammed cups and fists alike, but he took a seat on a stool nonetheless.

“What’ll it be?”

The bartender fit in perfectly with his clientele.

“What do you have?”

He snorted. “Mate, if you can afford to ask then you came to the wrong place.”

“Ale?” Rock guessed.

The man shrugged, and came back within the minute with a cup filled with a frothy liquid.

It was his first time tasting ale.

It would be his last time tasting ale, too, he decided.

Before he could spend too long regretting his choice, shouting—unfriendly, very much _hostile_ shouting— caught his attention. Further down the tavern, the customers had split into two groups, which were now throwing fierce insults at each other.

“You and your _patriotic_ friends will be the death of the _rest of us, asshole!”_

“So, what? You’ll sit on your arse, and let the _Red’uns_ fuck over _everything_ Arcadia has worked for!? You don’t _deserve_ to live and reap the rewards when the rest of _us_ bring our country _back!”_

Oh no.

Nationalistic squabbles never ended peacefully, and he needed to leave _now._

Unfortunately, now wasn’t soon enough. Somebody was thrown to the ground with a roar, and it all devolved from there. Rock rose from his seat, but he could do little more than stare as a full-blown bar fight descended on the crowded room.

Those who didn’t take a side rushed past him, sprinting for the door. It slammed open before anyone could reach it.

 _“Red’uns!”_ Someone yelled, and those who didn’t flee turned to face the soldiers. A morbid curiosity kept him rooted to his spot.

The brawl that ensued was as loud as it must’ve been painful. It was not, however, lengthy; the soldiers with their smaller numbers were overwhelmed in minutes. When the mob defeated them, they took their weapons and rushed outside.

He glanced back at the bar. It was completely unmanned.

Most of the soldiers on the ground were unconscious. A few were likely dead. But as he passed, giving them all a wide berth, one reached out to him.

He stopped.

Briefly, he was reminded of Bass. Their features were similar, under a split-second investigation: dark hair, tanned skin, lean figured.

Rock reached out and grasped their hand.

The soldier sighed gratefully, eyes falling closed. Rock didn’t try pulling him up, allowing the battered man a brief reprieve.

“…Are you alright?”

The man winced. “…Dunno. Hurts. No stab wounds, but it feels like I’ve broken a rib or few…” he panted, breaths shallow. Rock nodded.

Scanning the soldier, he looked no older than the prince himself. There were no physical scars visible on his skin, and his cadence was too fearful to be sadistic.

“What’s your name?”

“…Blast,” he hissed, eventually.

Rock didn’t know why, but he realised that moment that the injured soldier—whose hand he still held—was a good man. It was that same moment that he vowed to get him to safety.

“Alright, Blast,” Rock smiled comfortingly, “would you like me to take you to a hospital?”

Blast shook his head. “It’ll be too dangerous.” He tried to get up, but grunted and fell back down again. “The people are angry. We need to go to the army camp. It’s just outside the city walls.”

Rock nodded, helping Blast to his feet, who hesitated. “…Why are you helping me?”

He paused, doing his best to grin reassuringly. “I’ll tell you later. For now, let’s get you to the camp.”

He slung Blast’s arm across his shoulders and headed for the door.

Maybe later, he’d have an answer.

The journey to the city gate was slow and careful. The air was full of cacophonous yells and screams, but they faded as they escaped the centre of the city.

“What’s going on?” He turned to Blast, who was staring at the ground with an unreadable expression.

“You don’t know?”

“Can’t say I do. I’m passing through.”

The soldier nodded, glancing at him. “This city was the once capital of a larger kingdom. It’s not been very content with Wily’s rule, apparently.” He huffed out a mirthless laugh. “Can’t imagine why.”

Rock nearly stumbled, “a _rebellion?”_ He spluttered. “That’s- against _Masterium!?”_

“They have a chance, though.” He countered. “They know Arcadia well, and I have first-hand experience with how effective guerrilla warfare can be.” He motioned to himself with his free arm.

Rock took a moment to let the implications sink in. If _these people_ , who’d already been invaded and repressed, had a chance against the empire…

They continued through the alleys in a contemplative silence.

When they reached their destination, Rock cursed under his breath. The city gate was guarded by men without uniforms. They were armed, and clearly unwilling to compromise.

“Drop the red’un!” One shouted.

Rock neared with his hands up.

“Hello there!” He called out. “This man is no Masterium soldier—not anymore! His name is Blast. What are your names?” He spoke slowly, voice low.

“We don’t give a flying fuck what his name is, and you shouldn’t either. _Let go_ _of him,_ or else.”

“I’m not on his side.” As he and Blast grew closer to the two, he deliberately lowered his volume. “I’m not truly on anyone’s side. I’m a civilian. And I just want to know your names.”

“And we won’t tell ‘em, or repeat ourselves” the other man warned.

“Please? I mean no harm whatsoever, I can assure you. My parents are both Abelan; if that doesn’t prove my neutrality I’m not sure what will.”

“You’re Abelan?” They seemed to relax slightly, but they still eyed his companion like a dangerous dog.

_“ja, hundertprozentig.”_

Blast was staring at him.

“…I’m Drill.” The first man acquiesced, earning a glare from his partner. “What the fuck are you-“

“Wait,” Drill shot back.

He turned to him. “What do you mean he’s not a red’un anymore?”

Rock glanced at Blast, throwing him a pitying smile. “He’s severely wounded. A few broken bones—right arm, left leg, two ribs and a possible pelvis fracture. He won’t be returning to service, possibly ever. Tell me, Drill: what kind of enemy can’t hold a sword?”

Blast smothered a bewildered look with a slight hop, then a hiss. “Please, let us pass? I don’t think he’ll survive his injuries much longer.”

He locked eyes with Drill, pleading.

The rebel glanced at his partner, still conflicted, then sighed.

“Fine. Don’t come back.”

“Woah. You are much more cunning than I’d expected,” Blast remarked when they were out of earshot. “But you saved my life, so thank you. Really.”

Rock laughed. “That’s the first time I’ve ever been told that. I suppose it’s fitting, after that stunt.”

Blast nodded.

A while passed before he suddenly looked at him, head cocked. “…Is it later yet?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you helping me?”

Rock pondered for a moment.

“…You reminded me of someone.”

“Ah,” he huffed, then looked to regret it. “First time I’ve been saved by my looks.”

Rock grinned. “Your looks are surface deep. It was the parallels between good person and bad situation that made me help you.”

Blast made a sympathetic noise. “Are they dead?”

“No,” his smile faltered, “but there’s a good chance I’ll never see him again.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Rock glanced at the soldier.

“I hope you’re right.”

Bass had sent out the order to prepare for operation Ourea earlier that morning. It had been two hours since then, and he’d spent both of them in his chambers, head in his palms.

Heartbroken.

There wasn’t a better word for it. He’d searched for a long while, but he’d never prided himself on eloquence. Bass, general of Masterium, was fucking heartbroken.

It was just his luck that his first friend would be killed by his actions.

He was bound for the frontlines. A carriage would come to pick him up in an hour, along with a sizeable escort. It was a four day ride to the foothills. When he arrived, he’d begin the offensive against Abel.

Then it was just a matter of time until he’d be forced to watch Rock hang.

Rock had stopped and bid farewell to Blast when the camp came into view. It was bustling, and sprawling, but from their vantage point atop a hill it still managed to look… small. Surmountable.

He realised, with a start, that he couldn’t ignore the rebellion. Here were people fighting back against Masterium, in a time Abel had previously thought itself alone.

He returned to the city gate unoccupied. Drill’s partner narrowed his eyes when he saw him returning. “We told you not to come back.”

He dropped his façade of innocence. “And I never told you my name.”

_“Enough with the fucking names, I swear-“_

“I’m Rock Light. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

The look of shock on their faces quickly morphed into suspicion. “How can we trust that you’re a _prince?”_

“You don’t have to,” he said. “I simply need you to deliver a message to your leader.”

They bristled. “Is that so?”

“When an army comes marching to the gate, double-check their uniforms. If it’s blue, it’s Abelan, and they’ve come to help.” He stared at them a moment longer, making sure they knew he was serious. With that, he set off in a brisk strut back to the inn. It was late in the evening, and he’d need plenty of rest if he-

“Wait!” Drill’s partner shouted. Rock glanced back.

“We’ll take you to him. He won’t trust your message if he doesn’t see your face.”

He nodded, turning fully. “Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new characters :O
> 
> this fic is turning out to be so much longer than I expected and I'm loving it


	12. Chapter 12

Their provisional headquarters were grand from the street, a towering stone structure that had once housed the national bank. Once he stepped foot inside, however, the reception was a flurry of tumult and chaos.

Despite the moon high in the apex of the sky, people rushed around with parchments and weapons alike. Drill and his companion, who’d reluctantly identified himself as Gemini, seemed completely unsurprised.

“Today’s been in the making for months, now.” Gemini explained. “You’ll just have to bear it.”

They navigated the anarchy, headed for the stairs. Up two flights and at the end of the hallway, a room that must have previously belonged to management was now occupied by a man in generals’ uniform. He glanced up from a letter when Drill knocked on the open door.

“What the fuck,” he breathed, then scrambled to his feet. “Are you- who did you two bring in?”

Gemini raised a brow at his leader’s demeanour. “Claims himself to be the prince of Abel. Not sure if we can trust him, though. He was helping a _Masterium_ _soldier_ escape the city.” He muttered the final part while glaring at Rock.

He stared back, “as I said, _I’m neutral._ Or rather, I should be. But likelihood says Wily will declare war on Abel within the week, and—well, I suppose that gives me an excuse, doesn’t it?”

“To help a _red’un?”_ Gemini shot back.

Rock ignored him. “These two brought me to you because I was told you wouldn’t believe a message. I’m sure you know my name, although please simply call me Rock. I’m afraid I never learnt yours.”

“It’s King,” the leader replied.

Rock stifled a grin. “Fitting name.”

He groaned. “An ironic one. I intend to place someone of _genuine_ royal blood back on the throne once the country is stable. Until then, though…” He gestured at his office. “So what’s led you to Neo Arcadia, Rock?”

“Chance, or fate, or whatever you may call it. It isn’t what brought me that interests you, though. It’s what I intend to bring. Abel will need allies in our war, and so will you. But this isn’t just about Arcadia. If this revolution is successful, then,” he smiled, “Well, that’s quite inspiring, isn’t it?”

King nodded. “I see your point. Split Bass’s attention and everyone benefits.” He mused. “Your sister would be proud of you. I take it you’ll call upon her to give us reinforcements?”

“Precisely.”

“I see.” He sat back down, settling into the chair and gaining a regal aura. “You’ll need an escort if you wish to reach Abel _alive_.”

Rock cocked his head. “My cloak has sufficed so far.”

“Only because Masterium hadn’t yet placed a bounty on you. There are many amoral people pressed for money out there.” King rebutted. “I’m afraid I can’t spare an imperial-sized escort, but Drill and Gemini are both skilled and reliable fighters.”

Glancing to the two, Rock nearly laughed at their indignant rage.

“Sir-“

“Gemini, Drill, Arcadia is counting on you. You will accompany Rock to Abel, and you’ll protect him throughout the journey. Am I _understood?”_ King lazily raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I bid you farewell, Rock. You leave at sunup.” The general returned his attention to a letter on his desk, and that was that.

The carriage came to a stop.

Bass jostled from where he lay across the bench, book falling from his grasp. He sat up, staring out the window at the city walls in the distance.

Bass opened the door and stepped out.

“Why’d we stop?” He asked the driver.

His question was answered by a commander, jogging to his position. He saluted hastily. “Pardon me for interrupting your voyage, sir. But the nearby city of Neo Arcadia has rebelled, along with many other major cities throughout the region.”

Bass blinked.

_What?_

_“What?!”_

“The rebels have been planning this for some time,” the commander continued. “The uprisings occurred almost simultaneously throughout the region, and the existing battalion we had were no match against the entire city. Our army camp is full of wounded, and-“

 _“Okay,”_ Bass sighed, holding up his hand. _“Okay._ I get it.”

He went silent as his mind ran wild.

Simultaneous rebellions? They weren’t coincidences; the rebels had an adept leader. Possibly of the previous Arcadian army…? Likely. In fact, that was probably where a lot of the skilled rebels came from.

He couldn’t let more uprisings occur. As it was, the once-kingdom was bubbling over in rebels. If the thirst for freedom spread to neighbouring regions, there would be no defeating them all.

His army was massive, but massive was still far too small to combat an entire empire of revolution. Masterium would shatter like glass.

Scaring the populace of a continent into obedience would be far too expensive, but no amount of concessions short of full autonomous status would make any of the rebels happy. Which Wily would never allow. _That egotistical hag._

He was probably angry. No, he was probably _furious._ But that wasn’t Bass’s problem.

He was getting a headache.

“Sir, as I see it, you could either crush this rebellion or invade Abel. I am not suggesting you do one or the other, I simply implore you to decide quickly.” The commander rushed his words.

Bass struggled not to hit something. _“Fucking-_ fine. Are there any troops still in the city?”

“Possibly, but the majority who entered either went missing or were found dead. In other words, no.”

“Alright. Retreat from the city’s premises entirely. Use espionage to learn of future plans. Recover. When my soldiers return from Abel victorious, they’ll aid you in retaking the city.”

The commander hesitantly nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Waiting a moment longer, he saluted and left.

“Continue to the front lines,” he instructed the driver.

Getting back into the carriage, he collapsed sideways on the bench again and retrieved his book. It took far too long to realise he’d read the same paragraph four times. When he did, he dropped the book onto the floor, and sighed.

_“Fuck.”_

The universe hated him. That was the only explanation.

‘Yeah, give that child a shit father who wants to take over the world. He probably deserves it.’

‘Oh, get this. And then, he meets his first crush. And it’s the _prince_ of a kingdom he’s _invading_. Genius!’

‘Oh, oh! And then he’s forced to say _goodbye_ , lest he be forced to _kill him!_ Oh, we’re so fucking smart.’

If there was a god, he was giving Bass very good reason to stay an atheist.

At least Rock was safe.

_He better fucking be safe._

He’d slept well, what with nobody quite as eager to drink in a tavern full of dead bodies. When he was awoken, however, it wasn’t by the sun’s rays.

“Hey. Get up. We’re going now.”

Rock blinked slowly, gazing up at Drill with confusion. “What?”

The previous day came rushing to him all at once, and his awakening—in a bed, quilt, mattress, and all—suddenly made much more sense. “We’re going. Abel? Prince? Arcadian rebellion?”

“Right,” Rock snorted. “I remember now.”

He rose, and they made their way downstairs and out into the chilled morning breeze. Gemini met them outside, untying their horses.

He handed a coat far too thick to be appropriate to Drill, who took it gratefully.

“It’s only spring. Why are you bundling up so fiercely?” Rock asked. On second glance, Gemini was dressed warmly, too.

“It’s cold in Abel, isn’t it? That’s _its thing.”_ Drill replied.

He stifled a laugh. “Right.” Yes, it got cold, but it was _April;_ one’s breath would fog if they were _lucky._

They rode their horses along the narrow streets, and exited through the city gate to the countryside beyond.

It was a while before any of them spoke, but the silence was broken when Rock piped up. “The army camp is further down this road. We should be careful.”

“I guess. They’re packing up though, and I highly doubt they’d recognise us.” Drill butt in.

“Perhaps for you. But—packing up?”

“Moving camp. Not sure if we should be relieved or alert, though.” He huffed. “I suppose you should always be alert, if you plan to rebel against an empire.”

Rock smiled. “I suppose.”

Always be alert.

He’d never learnt the man’s name, in retrospect.

They were sending Blast back home. He would’ve been ecstatic had they given him the means—but no. Instead, they’d given him his pay and possessions, and then it was all ‘ciao’ and ‘have fun’.

_Fuck them._

His friends had hugged him, and told him ‘good luck’. It had sounded as if they were already mourning his death, and _hey._ That wasn’t very nice, even if he appreciated the concern.

His home was on the other side of the continent, and he’d likely never be able to make it there. But that didn’t spell out inevitable death _quite_ yet. Maybe one day, he’d save up enough coin to afford a trip back.

But for now, he rested, on the same hill the man he’d met had turned back.

It was a nice view. Slightly less beautiful with the sprawling war camp, but still. Nice. But it clearly wasn’t the sight that had stirred the man. He hadn’t seemed awed, or bothered.

He’d looked cautiously hopeful.

And really, that wasn’t the sort of effect war camps _had_ on people. He was one hell of a mystery, that was for sure.

He spent a long while on that hill. He watched, unsure what he was feeling, as the tents were all taken down and the equipment was loaded onto carts.

In the distance, the clopping of horses neared. Blast glanced at the road, then did a double-take and stared.

Mystery Man, Drill, and Asshole were riding up to him. They seemed to notice his presence at the same time he’d noticed theirs, and Asshole shot him a glare that rivalled the sun’s.

“You!” He yelled.

“Yup,” Blast deadpanned.

“What are you doing here?” Mystery Man seemed to beat Asshole to the punch. At least he wasn’t a jerk about it.

“They discharged me. A guy with two broken ribs—and, uh, a broken leg and arm, and fractured pelvis—isn’t quite as valued as a guy who has all of those intact, apparently.”

“They know I was lying,” Mystery Man laughed.

Never mind, then.

“Oh,” he said, smartly. “Cool. What are _you_ guys doing?”

“That’s none of your business, _red’un.”_ Asshole spat.

“Gemini.” Mystery man scolded, “he _just now_ told us he was _discharged_.”

Asshole—Gemini—no, Asshole suits him better—harrumphed.

“We’re on our way to Abel. I omitted my name from our conversation because at the time, you would’ve been obliged to report me to your superiors. Now that you’re no longer under your general’s command, can you keep a secret?”

Mystery Man really couldn’t make himself more mysterious if he tried, could he?

“Oh definitely,” he grinned. “I don’t plan on going back. Abel? You better bet I’m tagging along.”

 _“What!?”_ Asshole shouted.

“We’ll discuss that later. I’m the prince of Abel—Rock—and I’m going to get military reinforcement to help the rebels in Arcadia.”

 _“What!?”_ He echoed Asshole. “That’s awesome! But wait. Isn’t Abel at war with Masterium? That’ll be a bit of a hard sell, won’t it?”

Rock glanced at the army camp behind Blast, something like sorrow reflecting in his eyes. “So the inevitable has occurred, has it? No, it shouldn’t be. My sister’s a brilliant tactician, she’ll see the value in it.”

“Oh. I’ll come, too, then. An escort needs as many skilled soldiers as it can get, and three’s a crowd. I know our meeting left a bitter taste in your mouth, but I once held my own against someone twice my size and came out on top.” Blast puffed out his chest.

He’d then summarily been knocked out by one of his lackeys, but hey—that’s just how thugs operate.

“No.” Asshole asserted.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember asking you-“

“Alright.” Rock nodded.

“Wait really?” Blast turned, ignoring Asshole’s glare into his soul.

“You make a good case. Besides, you don’t have anywhere to go, do you?” Rock smiled.

Blast’s grin melted. “Oh, so it’s a pity thing, is it? Count me out. I don’t need-“

“No!” Rock corrected, eyes wide. “Not at all. If I pitied you, I’d give you some coin, not _bring your life into danger.”_

Blast scanned his face. Rock was almost transparent when he wasn’t trying so damn hard to be mysterious. He looked sincere.

Blast donned another grin. “Okay! I’ve got enough money to buy a horse and a dagger, with my savings. They didn’t let me keep their sword, but hey—whatever, y’know? It lacked a _personal touch_ , anyway.”

He comfortably prattled on, launching into a jog that his new friends’ horses could barely keep up with. He’d probably get one of his own at the next stable they came across.

He felt their bemused stares on his back, but they followed nonetheless. Subtly, he pushed their paths onto one that didn’t intersect Masterium’s war camp, and they followed.

Blast grinned.

He had a good feeling about this. The kind that would get him beat up and make him cry, but still be fun in the end. That kind of good feeling.

His favourite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it begins.
> 
> Hey! The side characters are going to get a bit more main-character-y from now on, but I'll do my best to make them as great as Rock and Bass! Besides, the overarching plot will still be BassRock focussed, so you don't need to worry about that.
> 
> Catch y'all next time!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit dudes forgot to post yesterday sorry

Tundra walked through the halls, a platter balanced deftly on his gloved fingertips. A wine bottle—beautifully aged over the course of a decade and a half—stood on it, along with a poisoned wine glass.

The paintings on the walls looked down at him with thinly veiled contempt.

‘An assassination attempt?’ They sneered.

‘How original.’

And yet he strut forward, no less assured, because if a decade of experience as a Cossack spy had taught him anything: there was nothing more conspicuous than anxiety.

The door to Wily’s chambers neared.

As would prove his downfall, the dictator never refused wine. He didn’t think twice about the safety of an offered glass.

Four years of loyal servitude had gained Wily’s trust. It was about time he betrayed it.

His eyes widened. He could hear the sound of footsteps trailing him. They were trying to be stealthy—and had they trailed anyone else, perhaps they would’ve been.

He contemplated ignoring it, but the person who followed was either lusting for _his_ blood, or that of the man Tundra was a minute from killing himself. Either way, he risked failure by allowing this charade to continue.

Calmly, he stopped at a nearby table, and placed the platter upon it. He didn’t immediately turn around.

A mistake.

He stifled a gasp as he was tugged backwards, falling into the arms of his pursuer. The man was massive, towering over Tundra with a figure of ample muscle. A hand came up to muffle any sounds he could’ve made, and another placed a knife at his throat.

Tundra knocked the knife from his grasp and elbowed him, hard. It delayed him far too little, and he’d only had a moment to reach for the abandoned knife before he was pounced on.

The man wrangled the blade from his gasp, pinning Tundra’s wrists above his head.

“Try something else and you’ll lose a lot more than your pride,” he warned. The knife returned to his throat. “Where’s Wily?”

Well, it wasn’t _his_ life in direct jeopardy. That was always pleasant news.

“ _svoloch’_ ,” Tundra ground out. “I was on my way to his room with _poisoned wine._ ” A cursory glance up revealed that the glass had tipped and shattered in their struggle. He cursed. “Unfortunately, it would seem _someone_ has foiled _that_ plan.”

The man’s eyes widened for a moment, but he concealed it with a growl. “Tough. But we don’t have time to pass blame. I-“

“Oh, it’s ‘we’, now is it?” Tundra understood perfectly well he was being petty. But Wily’s certain death had been _this close-_

“Shut up.” He growled, grabbing the cloth from Tundra’s breast pocket. Mutely, he watched as the man stuffed it into the wine bottle and lit it with a candle. “This’ll have to do.” Standing up, he brandished the dagger in one hand, and the Molotov cocktail in the other.

Crude, ineffective, and inferior, but Tundra kept his reservations to himself.

“Where’s his room?” The man spat.

He pointed at Wily’s chambers, lips thinned. “I would like you to know that I doubt this will work.” And the door was _right there,_ but now the life of millions were cradled in the clumsy hands of a terrible assassin.

The man nodded.

“For the glory of Tsubakuro,” he muttered, and threw the door open.

Tundra didn’t get a good view of what happened next, but the sound of shattering glass echoed through the hallways, and the assassin didn’t re-emerge.

Sprinting into the room, he saw a blaze spread across the desk and bed, consuming all in its path towards the exit.

On the floor, the man pinned Wily with his weight and used both hands to squeeze the air from his throat. A dagger was lodged deep in the dictator’s abdomen.

Flames licked at the edge of their clothing. It would be seconds until one or both were engulfed in fire, but neither seemed to care.

Oh, wonderful _._ The assassin was incompetent _and_ suicidal.

Tundra threw him off of Wily, pulling the dagger from the dictator’s abdomen and stabbing it through his palm. Grabbing the startled man’s wrist, he led him away from the burning room and the screams that now escaped it.

“What are you doing? I should be in there, ensuring his death!” He growled.

Tundra scoffed. “Oh, quiet down. There’s a blade in his palm and a stab wound in his guts—and the room he’s in has mysteriously caught fire. He won’t survive.”

Still the man seemed restless. “What do you think you’re doing? Saving me? I have no home to return to. You’ve simply forsaken me to an execution devoid of honour!”

“It was not my plan to save you from your idiocy then leave you to _die_. Follow me, I’ll get us out of this castle. Cossack could use your services.”

He brokered no room for argument, tugging him forcefully towards the servants’ passages.

Flying through the whirlwind of stairs and halls Tundra knew so well, they finally emerged near the stables.

Shouts echoed through the castle as news of the assassination spread, and a small group of knights armoured up and came to mount their horses. Suddenly, two of the stallions shot out from the stables with the assassins in their saddles.

They fled the castle under broad daylight, and with a dozen guards on their tails.

What should’ve been a neat, clean poisoning had turned into arson and an unwanted companion—but his job was done, he supposed.

Bass stepped out of the carriage, barely keeping a straight back for the thousands of soldiers that filled the streets before him.

He was tired. Not physically: he’d barely spent five minutes on the most basic of exercise.

But the village around him was _so grey_. Grey stone and grey roofs, and grey streets and grey skies and _grey-_

And the uniforms of his soldiers, washed out into nye-monochrome instead of their deep maroons and stark reds. And their swords: not silver.

_Grey._

He nearly screamed, but his mouth opened only to start his speech. His voice was loud and full of wrath, and despite his internal chastisement, he couldn’t calm down.

His soldiers, lined up in rows, all stared at him. He looked into their eyes every so often, but never lingered on any. As he marched before the lines of men, he clasped his hands behind his back; the shaking would be bad for morale.

Today had already been a long day. And in the hours until dawn, Bass knew it would only grow longer.

The battle was as harsh as he’d expected, and the Abelan soldiers fought back viciously and strategically.

He hadn’t expected, however, to focus so deeply on each man he struck down. He searched their eyes, feeling his chest clench painfully every time he killed another with blue eyes.

It didn’t even have to be Rock’s shade of blue. Just.

Blue.

In his armour, the mild day felt blisteringly hot. The stench of sweat was suppressed only by that of rot and death, and when the battle was finally won, he could’ve cried.

He was used to the strain of war. He _was._

But this was more than just that.

Rock reached for the map in the saddlebag, unfolding it against his thighs.

Drill glanced at him from where he rode his horse, snorting at the sight. “Yeah, good luck finding our way with that. The scale isn’t quite _perfect_.”

“It was the only one that wasn’t exorbitantly expensive,” he muttered. “And we won’t be using it come Sunday if we hasten, anyway.”

The border was only a few days’ travel by now, but with it would come the war. The map didn’t tell him where the frontlines were, but he could spot many strategic locations—and highways to major cities constituted the majority of them.

There was simply no other option. They’d have to brave it through no man’s land on their path to the capital.

It was possible they wouldn’t all survive.

“And once we cross the border? How far will it be to the castle?” Blast asked.

Rock glanced up, “Not far at all. Two days of travel at most.”

“That reminds me,” Gemini spoke up. He looked over his shoulder to Blast, eyes narrowed. “You never told us what you planned to do after… _this._ ”

Blast smiled ruefully. “’Cause I still don’t know.”

He paused, and his smile fell entirely. When he resumed, he radiated a built-up frustration. “What am I _supposed_ to do? I’m not a prince, not a rebel. I’m just some _guy._ The son of a baker. There’s very little duty for me—and what little there is, I can’t afford to reach it.”

He fell silent, lips thinned as he contemplated the countryside.

Gemini was staring at him. They all were; Blast had been all smiles and wisecracks since he’d joined, and yet.

“But that doesn’t matter,” he continued, visage brightening. “I’ve gotta live in the now, y’know? I-“

“No, no, no.” Gemini cut in. “You don’t just drop _that_ on someone without following it through. What other option is there? Are you willing to- what, live in a rebelling country? One far too expensive for you? A _dictatorship?”_ He made some sounds after that, but none of them made any particular sense.

“My home’s _in_ the dictatorship,” Blast pointed out. He raised an eyebrow, but his voice quivered on ‘is’, betraying his inner turmoil.

“It’s still home,” Gemini argued. “It’s the devil you know. It’s, it’s-“ He floundered.

Blast huffed. “Do you really wanna go there? It won’t help any of us.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but his mouth shut abruptly when Blast sent him a pleading look.

The ex-soldier vacantly watched the road they tread on, and the rebel craned his neck to stare at him. When he finally turned back to face the path, he looked to be in a faraway place.

Rock sighed, and let himself drift off, too.

Just for a moment, he pictured Bass riding alongside him, hand on his knee like when they’d parted. Then he dispelled the daydream, and willed himself to focus on the real world.

The one where they’d never meet again; the one where he should _get over his damn crush._

As expected, the ride to the next inn was silent.

They’d exchanged very few words in the last hour.

 _An hour,_ damn it.

He’d trained for a _year_ to be ready to take on the Masterium might—and his body was energised, but his mind was exhausted.

Credit where credit was due, the stallions they rode were taking their loads well; it was just them and the possessions they’d had at the time—and yeah. Fine. He did feel a bit guilty.

But how was he supposed to know that a measly _servant_ was planning on assassinating the _emperor?_

It was clear the man he rode alongside was anything but, however. He’d been confident, and graceful, and skilled beyond belief.

Maybe there was another reason he was in a foul mood. Maybe he was jealous.

And so what if he was? Huh? So what. He’d spent a year working up to assassinating Wily. And moments from glory, a competitor he hadn’t realised he’d even had shown up and thoroughly one-upped him.

He had reason to be jealous.

Distantly, the sound of horses’ clopping chased them forwards, as it had since they’d fled the castle. There’d been near to no chances to break from their pursuit, and the few that had presented themselves were too risky and not worth it.

At this pace, though, their horses would kick them off in frustration. The servant seemed starkly aware of it as he soothed the stallion he rode.

They were being worn down, he knew. And the breaking point was near.

He didn’t know how long it was until a viable opportunity presented itself—it could’ve been thirty minutes, it could’ve been thirty seconds—but when it did, he couldn’t stop a grin.

A bridge spanned the expanse of the river they neared, rickety and old and quiet.

And _wooden._

It was time to work his magic.

The man turned to him with a wide smile that didn’t quite fit their situation.

“Ride ahead of me!” He yelled, “I know how to stop these red’uns in their tracks.”

Tundra was sceptical, but he was at the point that he’d take any potential solution. Nodding, he silently comforted the horse as he kicked it into a final sprint.

He looked back as he shot across the bridge.

The man had slowed down massively, and half the span of the bridge lay between them. The battalion showed no signs of stopping, and there was a moment when Tundra thought he planned to simply hand himself over.

Instead, he pulled a pouch from the saddlebag, struck it against his boot, and threw it to the floor.

Behind him, Tundra saw the pouch ignite, the fire spread, and the entire bridge fill with thick, charcoal-like smoke.

He only wasted a second marvelling at the foreign technology before he set off, the pyromaniac close behind.

The next time he looked back, the only signs of what once spanned the river were the smouldering planks of wood floating gently through the current.

They didn’t see those knights again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't love thsi chapter too much, but it was necessary to introduce the new character. And the new romance :3


	14. Chapter 14

The village was halfway to abandonment and entirely impoverished. It came as a pleasant surprise, then, that a downtrodden inn was still in operation.

They checked in, paid the necessary coin, and slept.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true.

Gemini laid awake, the sole exception, staring at the beams above the bed he shared with the red’un.

Ex-red’un.

Same thing.

There had been a bounty on the village’s notice board. Only he had seen it—or perhaps the others had too, and simply not mentioned it.

He was the only one losing sleep about it, though.

The people here had surely read it. A remarkably well-drawn portrait of the prince hung front-and-centre, and Rock was woefully recognisable amongst the Masterium peasantry.

He’d thought of warning against sleeping here, but the next village was an hour away and without guarantee of housing.

And the red’un had looked so grateful to see the inn. He may have hated him, but anyone would’ve found it refreshing after hours of oppressive silence, alright? Especially when sorrow was so ill-fitting for his personality.

“What’s gotcha so pensive? The Gemini _I_ know doesn’t glare at inanimate objects.”

His head shot to the side, eyes locking onto the red’un.

“I was kidding.” He grinned. “That was sarcasm.”

It took another second to compose himself. Sole exception, was that it? “It’s none of your business.” He turned to face away. “Red’un.”

“Blast,” he corrected gently.

_“I’m not calling you that.”_

Despite the circumstances, he heard him laugh. “What, by my name?”

“It only hides your allegiance.”

“Whatever you say, green’un.”

 _Green’un?_ He wasn’t even in uniform!

“Fuck off.” He growled.

“Oh! Don’t like it?” The body behind him sidled closer. “Something else, then? Gemster? Gemmy?” A pause. _“Gem?”_

“Do _not_ fuckin’ call me _Gem.”_

He realised his mistake a second too late.

The heat that crawled up his neck couldn’t have been visible in the dark. Nonetheless, he somehow _knew_ Blast could see it.

Aggravated by the idea, he whipped around to face the red’un with a glare. “Look, why do you even insist on talking to me? It’s clear as a summer’s midday that I _hate_ you.”

The red’uns grin was unphased. “If you say so, Gem.”

His fingers twitched. _Ached_ to close around the red’un’s windpipe. He’d done it before to others, and he’d likely do it again.

He clenched his fists. He couldn’t kill a now-civilian. That went against every moral he had, even if Blast was only a _now-_ civilian.

“I saw Rock’s bounty on the notice board,” he ground out.

Blast, whose eyes had shut in contentment, was now wide awake. “Oh,” he whispered.

“…Do you think…?”

“Yeah,” Gemini grunted.

Blast nodded. “Yeah. It’s a possibility.” And then, “are they gonna get us in our sleep?”

“Neither of us are sleeping,” he reminded. “And no. The innkeeper wouldn’t let them.”

“Yeah,” Blast agreed. It sounded shallow and untruthful. “He wouldn’t.”

Not unless they split the reward.

Finally, Blast sighed. “Damn.”

“Yeah,” he agreed.

Gemini glanced at the red’un, who’d reverted back to the sullen stare of that afternoon. He was beginning to think that ‘jubilant’ _wasn’t_ his default emotion.

He hated the fact that the red’un intrigued him.

“Hey,” he nudged Blast. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it. It doesn’t help to be miserable, believe it or not.”

The kid blinked, smiling again. He couldn’t tell if it was real. “You’re right. Believe, me I know.”

He bit his lip, but eventually decided to push onwards. “No, really. Even if the _entire_ village of some twenty peasants decided to claim the bounty, we’d fight them off, you know. The door’s a chokepoint. The window’s an escape point. We’ve got better equipment. Get some sleep, relax. We’ll be fine.”

Blast stared at him for a moment, then huffed. When he closed his eyes with a smile, he could tell it was genuine.

“Sure, Gem.”

And just this once, Gemini would _let_ him call him that.

The battle was nearing. He could feel it in the air.

It was always obvious, to him, when soldiers would spill forth from their camps along the frontlines. People spoke less. Words were terse and efficient. Irritability spread like plague.

And then, like a wildfire, it would all ignite.

Of course, none of it was spontaneous. War was too complicated to approach with spontaneity. But the timing was always clear—it always felt _right._

But until then, they’d stew in the anticipation.

“Sir.”

“Come in.” He called out.

A commander walked in, face tight. He nodded respectfully. “We just received news that your father has had an attempt on his life.”

What?

…Oh.

Bass blinked. “Who was it done by?”

“A servant and an unknown man of foreign origin. They set fire to his bedroom at eight o'clock and fled.”

Servant?

Tundra?

No. Tundra worked alone—it was clear he had an agenda, but he wasn’t the sharing type and he certainly wasn’t an _arsonist._

“What was the servant called?”

The commander seemed caught off guard by the question. “I- I don’t know, sir. That wasn’t in the report. If you’d like, I could ask-“

“No.”

The man nodded, “Yes sir.”

“Dismissed.”

He didn’t watch the commander flee, gaze stuck on the map on his desk.

Assassination attempt? Servant and a foreigner. It couldn’t have been Tundra, and yet something in his gut told him that it had to be.

Yes, he realised, it was. He was the only servant who could successfully flee from something like that.

He was more interested in the perpetrator than the victim.

It bothered him that he wasn’t bothered.

Blast was shaken awake by Gem, lips tight and sword unsheathed.

“There are footsteps nearing. Wake the others, we might get the element of surprise if we’re quick.”

They weren’t quick enough.

The door opened slowly, moonlight filtering in through the crack.

Gem froze. He was the closest to the door, but his back was turned. Something flashed through his eyes, and he lowered himself back onto the bed, eyes fluttering closed.

 _Nearly closed,_ he corrected himself.

Element of surprise, eh?

In the darkness, only the silhouettes could be made out. He counted two figures, front and centre. As they creeped in, however, another four followed.

_Damn._

How long was Gem planning to wait? None of the silhouettes had swords, but their figures weren’t slim. _His_ sword was nearby, but there was no guarantee he’d reach it if Gem kept _waiting-_

A figure shot out of the bed beside him, dagger gripped tight in its left hand.

That was the cue.

Throwing the sheets off, he jumped for his own blade before turning to the nearest enemy—just in time to see Gem impale one through the heart. The scream that followed woke everyone else, and with that, the fight had begun.

He rushed towards the closest foe. The guy before him was huge, but he hadn’t seen Blast until it was too late. Duck under the fist. Through the heart, then pull it out. Thud.

Someone came at him from his right, and he turned to intercept. Gem’s dagger stuck through their windpipe before they could reach him.

On the other side of the room, Rock clutched a dagger of his own, but his stance was all wrong. He was backed into the wall, and Drill stood in front of him with his sword. Rock stared at the corpse at his feet.

He and Gem were the only offence: Rock looked like he couldn’t hold his own in a thumb war, let alone a fistfight with knives; Drill would be too occupied to help.

He glanced at Gem, whose face was obscured by shadow. Nonetheless, he could make out his nod. He’d arrived at the same conclusion.

They rushed the final two enemies simultaneously.

They were prepared.

He evaded the fist swung in his direction, but he was too slow to dodge the knee. He doubled over, gasping, and cried out when he was kicked in the ribs.

The man landed on him, crushing him. He was too heavy to push off. Blast couldn’t breathe, it hurt, he-

Gem kicked the corpse off of him, offering his hand.

He was getting a distinct sense of déjà vu.

Blast took it, pulling himself up. He leaned on Gem, relishing the contact while he could.

Rock’s voice was faint when he spoke. “Blast, are you alright? You were the only one who made a sound, but—goodness, is everyone else alright, too?”

Gem spoke on his behalf. “One of them kicked him where he’d been injured in the rebellion. It must be painful, but he’ll be fine. Any healing his ribs might’ve achieved has been set back, so he won’t be in full health for the rest of the journey.”

“…I’ll take that as meaning you’re unharmed,” Rock acknowledged, sounding about as bemused as Blast felt.

“And I’m fine.” Drill summarised.

“Good.” Rock breathed, calming down slightly. “That’s good. I suppose we aren’t welcome here anymore. People are likely coming to investigate. We must continue.”

Beyond the window, the sky was as dark as when he’d fallen asleep. Nonetheless, he had a feeling they’d be riding through the rest of the night.

They only set up camp when they were closer to the neighbouring hamlet than the one they’d left behind. By then, the first rays of dawn were peeking out from the horizon.

Gemini’s eyes had dark bags beneath them. From Blast’s excited (and likely exaggerated) recounting, Gemini had told him of the bounty he’d spied on the notice board and then awoken him hours later upon the men’s entry.

The rebel hadn’t denied any part of it. In other words, he’d yet to sleep.

Guilt nagged at Rock’s conscience, telling him it was all his fault. And frankly, it was. He wasn’t one to make irrational assumptions, but it was neither irrational nor an assumption: he was the reason Blast winced when he laughed, Gem snapped at nearly everyone, and why the hamlet they’d escaped had a quarter of its population slain in one night.

And they weren’t even in Abel yet.

The last embers of the fire glowed resiliently, emanating little heat. He’d need to fall asleep soon, or the cold would keep him up. Maybe he could take over watch if it did?

They were close to the border. By morrow’s evening, they’d have crossed into Abel.

He’d need sleep. They all would.

Tundra sat at the campfire, eating an apple he’d plucked earlier that evening. The man sat across from him, intermittently switching between watching the flame and watching him.

He was currently doing the latter, wordlessly.

Simply. Staring.

Without a word.

Wordlessly.

He felt his brow twitch. “Tundra. Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he sighed.

“What?”

He looked at the man, eyebrows cocked. “And you are?”

“What? I- Torch.”

Tundra nodded. “There. Will you please stop staring, now? Maybe, a normal conversation, instead? Or silence. I’m impartial, myself.”

Torch watched him guardedly. “…Sorry, I hadn’t realised I was being impolite.” He couldn’t tell if he was insulting him or not. “I guess a conversation’ll be good for the both of us. We answer each other’s questions, yeah?”

“ _Da_ ,” he monotoned. “Ask away.”

“Who are you?”

Tundra sighed. “I thought I’d already answered-“

“No,” Torch interrupted, “my bad. I guess I was trying to ask _what_ you are. You’re no servant, that’s for sure.”

“No,” he confirmed. “I’m not.”

He waited a moment, hoping Torch would take the hint and move on. Then he waited another. Finally, he acquiesced. “I’m a spy. One of Cossack’s best. I gained the trust of Wily, then his son, the general. Since then, I’ve been sending sub rosa letters detailing the nature of Masterium’s advances.”

“Cossack? I thought it fell?”

“The _kingdom_ did,” he corrected, “the king did not. But you are correct in your implications. My letters were not sufficient. Masterium does not thrive on secrecy, but rather brute force. Espionage alone will win no wars against Wily.”

Torch made a noise of understanding. “I’m sorry. But your king’s still alive?”

“It’s where I’m taking us,” he responded. “To the resistance effort. It’s no small thing, with the king as its figurehead. What’s left of his army, as well as many civilians, have joined the force. You may not be Cossack, but you’re far from on Wily’s side. He’ll accept the help.”

The fire crackled. Torch made no move to reject the destination, contemplating the consequences as he stared into the flame.

“ _Khorosho_ , I believe it’s my turn. Who, or what, were _you?”_

“Were?” Torch repeated. “Gee, thanks. I guess I was a soldier. Tsubakuro drafted me as a child, took me away from my parents. I was fifteen, I think. Before you ask, I don’t know if they’re still alive. Probably not. Hopefully not. If they are…”

He trailed off. “Hopefully not.”

“As a soldier?” Tundra queried. “Not as an assassin, and yet they send you in to do just that?”

“I’m getting to that,” Torch sent him a glare. “Patience. If ‘child soldier’ didn’t give it away, Tsubakuro was low on manpower by the time I was drafted—I don’t think there was ever any hope that we’d win the war, by then. It was just keeping up appearances. We wouldn’t—couldn’t surrender.”

Tundra watched the man recount his tale. His eyes looked pained, and his shoulders were slumped. He was clearly once a proud man, but crushing defeat tended to stifle that in people.

“I was still alive when we lost the war. Tradition said I should’ve run my blade through my stomach, but I received orders not to. The emperor, now in hiding, needed the few who were left. And for the next year or so, I was retrained.”

“Wait,” Tundra interrupted. He ignored the annoyed look he received. “How _old_ are you?”

Torch snarled. “Nineteen. And don’t even _think_ of making fun of me for it.”

“You… you fought in the war for _three years?”_

“Two and a half. And trust me, I’m just as surprised as you are that I’m still alive.”

“I see,” Tundra mumbled. Surviving two and a half years in the war was _impressive_. Coming out the other side mentally intact was _impossible._

“Yeah, I hope you do.” Torch grumbled.

He finished his apple, tossing the core in his horse’s direction.

He got up. “It will be a few days of travel to Cossack, and we will need to make a stop to resupply and purchase more suitable wear. Prepare to be ambushed in the city. Our bounties are likely already common knowledge.”

Torch grunted. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. You’re taking first watch.”

Tundra stifled a laugh as he watched the man summarily flop back against the mattress, sprawling out.

“Naturally,” he agreed pleasantly. Torch didn’t reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm redrafting the layout for OB&B, so I've only got one and a half chapters of cushion. If I manage to finish up the layout before the 20th though, you guys won't have anything to worry about!


	15. Chapter 15

He’d underestimated Abel.

He knew that now. He wished he’d known that earlier. Arcadia was growing stronger as each day passed—he was _very_ aware of that—but diverting soldiers from these frontlines would only mean they’d reach a stalemate.

A _stalemate._

When was the last time Masterium had been _equal_ to its opponent? He couldn’t remember, and he’d watched its military affairs with an eagle’s eye for more than a decade, now.

It must’ve been the case at some point, though. He just hadn’t expected it to happen again within his lifetime.

“Sir?”

His eyes refocussed. The commander before him looked nervous _._ Pathetic.

Not that he was easy to talk to, but he’d expected better of Masterium.

He’d expected better of himself.

“Yes?” He cocked his brow.

“I… Are you alright, sir? I can come back some other time if now-“

“Oh just fucking tell me the bad news already.” He interrupted, eye twitching.

“The Arcadian rebels have pushed Masterium presence from the region altogether. Arcadia has declared itself a free nation, and Abel has recognised-”

He growled. “Arcadia is _not_ a ‘free nation’ _._ It is a rag-tag bunch of bumbling _idiots_ fighting red-coated _toddlers_ who don’t know how to fight yet. Now _leave,_ unless you have more to tell me.”

“Yes, sir!” The commander fled.

_Fled._

He snorted, refocussing on the battle map before him.

Toddlers. The whole fucking army. He was alone in this goddamn sea of poor management and idiots scared into holding a sword.

He wasn’t one of them.

And he’d carry them to victory if it fucking killed him.

Masterium was using the village as a base of operations.

It had once been Abelan. Now, it brimmed with crimson presence.

There was an air about it. Tense, restless, and scared. They snuck through its alleys, silent as spring breeze, eyes sharp as soldiers passed. Their horses followed without complaint.

There was something about the knights, too.

They were exhausted, fed up, and without an outlet.

It was reaching a boiling point—and yet it was so quiet. Even near the markets, the vendors spoke only to communicate prices. No ‘thank you’s. No ‘come again’s.

If they’d arrived the day before a battle, they were dead. They couldn’t wait for it to pass.

He looked around their group.

Some had a chance of making it. He didn’t.

Nightfall was two hours away.

“Should we wait for the sun to go down? Make our way under the cover of darkness, or something?” Drill asked.

“I say we go now,” Blast offered. “I mean, _can_ we wait? I’m pretty sure we’d be found, what with the amount of knights around here.”

Gemini shot him a look, but stayed silent.

Rock hummed. “My apologies Drill, I’m inclined to agree with Blast on this occasion. I’m afraid we simply don’t have the chances in our favour if we plan to wait.”

Drill nodded. “Right.”

He looked nervous, and Rock didn’t blame him.

They reached the frontlines too soon. Before them, trenches stretched out into the horizon on both sides. And across no man’s land, a river’s breadth away, a mound of dirt that spanned the frontline signified the Abelan trench.

They hid in the forest not too far behind Masterium. This was it. The border. They crossed this, and it was all reverence and luxury.

They just needed to get to the other side.

He turned to each man on his horse, individually nodding to them.

“You know where to aim for, and what to avoid. Let’s go.”

They nodded back.

The thunder of their horses’ gallops alerted the red’uns of their arrival, but they were too quick to be stopped.

They leapt over the trench, and there was a moment of blissful silence before shouting broke out across the frontline behind them.

Gemini flattened himself against his horse’s back.

No man’s land was green and lush, but it was far from peaceful as a hailstorm of arrows came down around them. The sound they made as they pierced the ground made him flinch.

The Abelan trench, so close yet so far, erupted in a mass of blue-coated soldiers. They charged forward with their swords drawn, but they left a path open for their escape.

They’d just provoked a battle, he realised.

Arrows came flying through the sky again. He hugged the neck of his horse, making his profile as small as he could. To his right, Blast screamed. He turned to look, even though he really, really didn’t want to know.

He watched, time seeming to slow, as Blast fell from his horse. An arrow was lodged in his lower back, and the long end snapped off when he hit the ground. He rolled for a second. And then he just lay there.

Rock glanced back, and paled.

“Keep going!” He yelled. “I’ll save him!”

Rock opened his mouth to retort, but Gemini didn’t hear it as he yanked on the horse’s reigns and pulled it to a stop. He caught the sight of Drill for a split second as he rode by. He made no move to halt.

“Blast!” Gemini dismounted and ran towards the fallen boy. He looked up as his name was called, expression a mix of pain, relief, and dread. “Gem!” He called back.

Blast hissed as he was picked up. “Drill, he’s-“

“Fine. Come on, let’s get you on my horse.”

Blast shook his head, eyes screwed shut. “Fine, no, he’s not-“ A coughing fit interrupted the rest of his sentence.

“Blast. Stay with me. You’ll survive.”

He reached his horse, hoisting Blast onto the saddle and following him up.

“C’mon, boy,” he muttered, lashing the reigns.

He saw Drill on his horse some distance ahead, waiting. He still clutched the horse's neck in what looked to be fear. Why was he waiting?

Gemini got a better look when he neared.

There was an arrow in Drill’s neck.

Blood seeped from the wound, staining the stallion’s mane a violent crimson.

He was dead.

He thought, briefly, of how dead Blast had looked moments earlier. Of how he still breathed, and still lived. Of how, maybe if he went for _Drill,_ too, then he’d live as well.

But it was impossible to breathe when blood filled your windpipe.

And it was impossible to live without air.

He forced his horse to sprint faster. Faster, until they leapt over the Abelan trench, and met up with Rock again. He was standing next to his horse, grooming him silently. He looked up at their arrival.

“Blast!” He breathed. “You’re injured?”

“Yup. A bit,” he winced.

“What about Drill? Is he…?”

“Dead,” Gemini cut in. “He’s dead. We need to keep going. Blast needs a doctor; _he_ can still make it.”

“Gem?” Blast looked at him.

“It’s alright. You’re alright.”

“I’m-“

 _“Fine,”_ He interrupted. Blast nodded.

“…Okay. I’m fine.”

“There’s a bounty on our heads,” Tundra informed him. He pointed at the town’s notice board, and—sure enough—there was.

“Joy,” he muttered.

“Indeed. Nonetheless, we require supplies. It shouldn’t take long. Would you like to guard our horses or come with me?”

“Horses,” he replied. “Oh, and buy me a sword if you can, too. I believe we might need it with that much money on us.” His fingers twitched.

“ _konechno_ ,” Tundra nodded, and hurried off.

His eyes darted around, taking in every suspicious face and searching for any signs of recognition. They’d tied their horses just inside an alley, out of the way of any prying eyes. Despite that, he still had an acute awareness that _someone_ was going to attack.

The gold on their heads could purchase a mansion. He didn’t even have a dagger.

He clenched his fists. Without a weapon didn’t mean helpless, for him. His time in the emperor’s employ had taught him plenty about hand-to-hand combat.

Of course, they’d then given him a sword, and he’d never used the skills against an opponent.

Today would likely remedy that.

He glanced around again. Still, nobody seemed to notice him.

Maybe not _today._ But there was a week yet until they made it to Cossack. They were bound to-

There were people behind him.

He whirled around, throwing a fist at the one closest to him and dodging a stab. Before any retaliation efforts could be made, he hopped backwards two paces and entered a defensive stance.

“Settle down, frog-eyes,” the leader chuckled. There was always a leader, when it came to these types of thugs. “We just wanted to say hi.”

He kept silent, watching their every move. Of course, there was always the possibility someone was coming up behind him-

There was no one there. His eyes flicked back to the approaching men. Amateurs.

“Hi.” He ground out, letting down his defences slightly. If they weren’t smart enough to sneak up on him with a distraction, he could afford to buy time.

“He ain’t mute? Shame. Those lips have _far_ better things to do than _talk.”_ That got a few crude laughs from his companions—and really? They were here for a _bounty,_ not a quick fuck—and either way, he _towered_ over most of them.

He ended up not replying.

“And there he goes, silent again. Maybe ‘hi’ is the only Masterian he knows?”

“I was taught by a native speaker.” He retorted. “It would seem you learnt it by asking an open sewer to speak.”

“Oh, he _bites._ Tell me, frog-eyes, what’s someone like _you_ doing all the way over here? Your little _friend_ might know, I’m sure. Where is he?”

“Behind you,” he grunted.

They all whipped around, giving him ample time to twist the closest man’s neck until it cracked. Retrieving his dropped dagger, he turned to the next thug and sunk it into his throat.

All that remained were the leader and one other lackey, advancing on him with snarls and bared teeth.

So undignified.

A sword burst from the leader’s chest, withdrawing a moment later. The last thug watched in confusion, horror, then rage, only to then receive it in the throat.

Tundra stepped over the corpses as if they weren’t there. “’Behind you’?” He chuckled. “You hadn’t even realised I was there, had you?”

“No,” he replied, “but I had a hunch. There or not, it still gave me an advantage.”

“That it did,” Tundra agreed. “Oh. And it would seem the sword I bought you has blood on it. My apologies.”

Torch inspected the weapon held out to him, marvelling at the good build. “Apology accepted.”

Tundra handed him the sword, which he strapped to his back.

“I’ve also received some news.”

“Judging from your expression, I’m guessing it’s nothing good.”

“Wily survived.”

The breeze felt colder when it next blew over his skin. “…Oh.”

“Indeed.”

It was impossible. It _couldn’t be_ possible, that’s how he could tell. _He was there_. He saw the flames engulf the room—how had he survived? A part of him wanted to blame Tundra. He glanced up, watching him stare at nothing in particular with thinned lips.

He _could_. There was a case to be made for it, but he couldn’t find it in himself to do so.

They’d been so close.

“…Who told you?”

That wasn’t what he’d wanted to ask. More pressing questions, such as _how, by what margin,_ and _what now_ bothered him far more.

“A soldier, seconds before unsheathing his sword and pointing it at me.”

He nodded.

Tundra sighed. “Nothing changes. We can’t afford to go back and attempt once more. Not without the element of surprise—which, I assume you already know, isn’t quite in our favour.”

Torch’s expression soured. “We continue to Cossack? But—Wily? He’s-“

“ _Da_ ,” Tundra interrupted. “Despite Wily. The plan was, and still is, to revolt; his survival does not change that. Arcadia, Abel, and Cossack together will be more than enough to stretch Masterium to its breaking point.”

“But-“

“Torch.” Tundra interrupted, placing a hand on his shoulder. He hated it, he told himself. It felt like he was being talked down to.

“It’ll be alright. Wily is likely heavily injured, and unfit to rule. His survival boosted morale—but that’s all it did. His tyranny is, for the most part, locked behind his chambers’ doors.”

Torch nodded. “Yeah.”

He… didn’t feel that much better. But Tundra had helped, if even by a little bit.

“Yeah.”

They had a new goal.

“Sir.”

Bass paused, helmet still in hand. “Can it _wait?”_

“I believe we are running out of time as we speak, sir.”

The commander looked none too pleased to be the one reporting to him. He sighed, placing the helmet on the stand and turning fully. It was too fucking _hot_ in this armour. “Then continue.”

“Reports are coming in from some soldiers, saying they witnessed the prince crossing the borders with three other accomplices on horseback. He made it to the Abelan side, sir.”

Rock?

“A covert ops team is ready for deployment at your command.”

“Don’t.” He muttered.

“Sir?”

“Did I fucking _stutter?”_

“No, sir. Understood.” The commander left.

Rock.

He was alive.

He was safe.

That was all that mattered. There was no point selfishly claiming him as his own. The prince still had a nation to run.

Despite his rationalising, a spark of jealousy flared.

Accomplices? He hadn’t left with _accomplices._

“Rock…” he whispered.

Rock was _his._ And he protected what he loved. So for now, he’d let the accomplices keep him. They’d kept him safe until now.

He dispelled his train of thought, continuing to remove his armour.

Soon. He wouldn’t let his old man execute him. He’d already made notable progress: when he took the capital, there’d be nothing stopping them from finally being together.

Soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, the layout actually took way less time than I was expecting, and it's now done, with plenty of cushion to spare.
> 
> And uh... Yeah, Drill's dead.
> 
> w h o o p s


	16. Chapter 16

They travelled for another six days before reaching Cossack.

The remnants of winter blanketed the ground with patches of snow, and their breaths’ condensation resembled smoke.

The first village they passed through was sombre. That was Torch’s foremost concern; not the foreign architecture with its logs for walls, nor the language everyone spoke that sounded slurred and vulgar—not even the few with tattered clothes that smelt of smoke.

Tundra neared one of the villagers, speaking in that quick, drunk speech. The villager responded, and then Tundra froze.

He rejoined Torch a few seconds later, eyes dark and lips thinned.

“What did they say?”

“Nothing. _Poydem_ , we must make haste.”

He didn’t believe a word of it. But there wasn’t much he could do, other than follow Tundra’s horse as it galloped along the road.

His breath’s condensation resembled smoke—but nothing like the dark plumes of black on the horizon.

Those weren’t _resemblances_.

The village they arrived at was, predictably, a burnt-out husk. Houses still smouldered slightly, and the cold had yet to reach some embers amongst the rubble. The occasional brick façade had survived, but that was all they were.

Façades.

Amongst the ashes, corpses were scattered across the roads, black like charcoal. Most had expressions of terror seared onto their faces.

“Shit.” Torch swore, halting his horse next to Tundra’s.

The assassin continued onwards, lips thinned. “I echo the sentiment.”

“…Tundra?” He hazarded, catching up. “Are you…”

“Our destination is the royal family’s old winter palace, two hours east of the capital. We should make it by the end of the week.” He intoned.

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Torch replied, gentle. “What’s this place to you?”

Tundra stayed silent for a long time. He allowed him to.

“It was my home.”

Ah.

He faltered, flailing for appropriate words of comfort. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Tundra replied, tightly.

Wasn’t it?

“Still, I-“

“Do not.”

“I-“

 _“Torch.”_ He wasn’t looking at him, voice ice cold.

“Tundra, you can’t just _ignore-“_

_“Watch and learn.”_

“Tundra!”

And the kindling ignited.

 _“What!?”_ He yelled, stopping entirely to turn to him. His face was twisted with hate. “What do you want me to _say?_ That I’m- what, devastated? That this has thrown me off balance—a, a place I cherished, burnt to a crisp because of a botched assassination?”

He didn’t really know.

“Alright! There you are! And- and since we’re already here, why don’t I tell you something else? Why don’t I tell you how _this-“_ he gestured to the crumbling village, “-is _your_ fault? Because I was _so close!_ And because of _you,_ this place has been reduced to _ashes_.”

That- that _hurt._

No, because that fucking _hurt._

 _“My_ fault!?” He yelled back, “for all you know, Wily was the better of two evils! You know, I _doubt_ his worst plans were his own ideas. If you look throughout history, the worst tyrants always had someone worse, just below them, giving them their ideas and _improving them,_ too.”

Tundra opened his mouth to speak. Torch cut over him.

“Time and again. Time. And. _Again_. Never mind ‘for all you know’, if Wily had died that _worse evil_ would’ve stopped at _nothing_ to achieve complete control. He wouldn’t have just burnt down your hometown—he would’ve tracked down your loved ones, tortured them, and then burnt them, too.”

He was taking heaving breaths now, and Tundra took his opportunity to rebut with vengeance.

“You don’t know that! You don’t know _anything!_ You’ve never talked to him, let _alone_ even _seen_ him-“

_Him?_

“Oh, yeah? Who’s ‘ _him’_?”

Tundra stuttered to a stop, staring at him, then at a blackened façade.

“…Bass,” he whispered. _“He_ wouldn’t.”

“…Bass?” Torch echoed.

“I know that he’s not cruel. He’s nothing like his father.”

There was a beat, and then Torch nodded. “Oh.”

They started walking again.

Tundra stubbornly stared ahead when he spoke. “…I apologise. It would seem my temper got the better of me. I don’t blame you.”

Didn’t he?

“It’s alright.” He responded.

It was alright if he did.

Rock had changed in the weeks since he’d left—but the palace was just as he’d remembered.

Flowing drapes, golden chandeliers, and pink-plastered walls seemed to embrace him as they were led to the throne room. He still remembered the route.

The paintings were all the same faces, the carpets all the same colour, the rooms all the same furniture.

It felt like home. And after so long feeling alien, the sensation was otherworldly.

He was home.

The entrance swung open. His father sat on the throne, and Roll sat beside him.

They were smiling, he realised.

They smiled, despite the fact that he’d _failed._

“Rock,” Light spoke, and his booming voice comforted him after so many weeks. “You’ve returned. With companions?”

Gemini and Blast hurried to bow. Rock nearly laughed.

“Yes, father, with companions. I was escorted by these men across the border. One is here for the thrill,” He cocked a brow at Blast, “the other is here as ordered by his leader.”

‘There used to be two’, he thought. His lips stayed sealed.

“Unfortunately, I cannot come here accompanied and not fulfil the wish of my escort.”

He turned to his sister, lips thinned.

“I take it you’ve heard Arcadia has revolted?”

“Yes,” she responded, bemused. “It was quite the pleasant surprise.”

“Indeed. Have you considered sending military aid to the country? I’m sure you know its strategic significance as well as I do.”

Roll glanced at Gemini, eyes evaluating. She turned back to him. “I have. They don’t seem to need it. The royal family is back in power and the rebel force has significant influence in its military. Why would it need our help?”

That… What? Bass _gave up?_

Recovering quickly, he spoke. “At the very least, we need a secure line of communication between our country and theirs. Masterium is biding its time; a counterattack is imminent, and you know that.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but Light cut across her with a disapproving frown. “Rock. This is _not_ the kind of conversation we will have the moment you return. You may continue it with Roll, in _private,”_ he sent a glance to Gemini, “at a later date. For now, there is a banquet to be held.”

Rock stopped himself from fidgeting. Blast looked abundantly agreeable on the proposition, but he could feel Gemini’s stare on his back. Compared to the chaotic haste of the rebellion, monarchy likely seemed _lethargic_ to him.

Nonetheless, he had no say in it. “Of course. You’re right, father.”

Light nodded, and dismissed them. “Servant, please show our guests to their rooms. And I take it you know the way to yours, Rock?” He joked.

He could only nod.

“Wow,” Blast breathed as they entered their room. “This is… a _lot.”_

It was, factually.

It was massive, compared to the bunk beds and rolled-out mattresses they were used to. The room was larger than most peasants’ homes. Despite it, Gemini's mind lingered elsewhere.

Arcadia was stable, it seemed. They hadn’t needed to come here. They hadn’t needed Abel’s help.

Was their entire trip useless?

Was Drill’s death in vain?

Even if both of those questions were true—that didn’t answer his most pressing one.

Why?

Masterium had pulled away— _surrendered—_ in a manner so uncharacteristic it must’ve left Arcadian _strategists_ second-guessing. By all means, they should’ve had to give every man, woman, and child a weapon just to hold back the red’uns.

But they _hadn’t_ had to.

It scared him more so than the thought of battle itself. The thought that Masterium was- _‘biding its time’._

It made him feel like prey, and he wasn’t even _in_ Arcadia.

He glanced at Blast, still gawking at every shiny object in the room.

Once he returned, what would happen with him? Guests; that’s what they were, but Blast had nowhere to go, and no savings to spend. Could he take him back to Arcadia? He couldn’t know if he’d even be happy there—but even if he was, would he be safe?

Because that was the question it all boiled down to, with Blast. He couldn’t pinpoint when he’d started valuing his safety, but it was important to him now, for better or for worse (for worse).

“The servant told us the banquet was at seven. We have that many hours to entertain ourselves, do you have any ideas?”

Blast turned to him with a sparkle in his eye and a grin on his face.

“Hell yeah, I do.”

Chess.

He and Rock had played it, a few weeks ago.

It felt like longer.

It felt like yesterday.

He was playing against himself again—Abel was black.

The kingdom had waited patiently for Masterium to strike, and as white, he did. Abel’s strategies were defensive, and it was without aversion to sacrifice that most countries its size flinched away from.

Masterium was offensive. Lumbering, Rock had once called it. Like a giant whose shadow made all but the brave and the idiots flee. He’d been having a bad day, when he’d said that.

They’d both been having rather awful excuses of days, but compared to his misery on the frontlines, he’d do worse than kill to relive them.

Oh.

White had won.

He stared at the board, bemused.

He played again. This time Abel was white, with an advantage it didn’t have outside of the game.

He- Masterium still won.

Was this supposed to make him feel better?

He buried his head between his arms, a low keening sound escaping his throat.

Rock.

He’d do _so much_ worse than kill just to see him again.

The palace was little but a husk.

Its windows were blown out and its roof had collapsed, along with many parts of the façade. Rubble scattered around the base of the building, and the stone superstructure could be seen further in through gorges in the walls.

“I take it the king isn’t _here_ specifically,” Torch mumbled as they approached on foot.

“Perceptive,” Tundra shot back. “Not quite, he isn’t.”

He provided no further explanation as they strolled into the bombed-out interior, navigating through hallways in various states of destruction. It was as they were stepping over rubble from a collapsed second floor that Tundra pointed at a doorway to the dark.

Torch nodded, and followed him in.

It led to the cellar, surprisingly intact after all these years and still stocked up on alcohol. Tundra took a lantern from where it lay near the landing, lighting it with a nearby fire striker on his third try.

“Uh, Tundra, you gonna tell me where we’re going yet?”

“ _Da,_ naturally. The resistance headquarters.”

Torch shot a glare at the man’s back. “I already knew that.”

“Oh? My apologies.”

The back shook in muffled laughter.

Fine.

Tundra stopped suddenly and took a turn down one of the lanes of barrels. Torch followed, watching the shadows they cast dance across the damp walls. Tundra took another turn, and another, then stopped at a wine barrel that looked no different from the rest.

And then he removed its front.

Torch took a silent step back, half expecting wine the value of a small town to come rushing out.

Because this one was empty.

Tundra didn’t hesitate, ducking his head as he stepped in. He paused inside, turning to him with a smile illuminated by the lantern. “Do replace the top of the barrel once you come in. It's quite necessary to maintain our secrecy.”

Torch nodded dumbly, doing as he was asked as he followed Tundra in.

The other side was missing its bottom, and beyond it was a hole in the wall. They made their way through it and into the tunnels beyond.

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know if he _wanted_ to say. His mouth was parted slightly in wonderment, and his breath fogged in the musty air.

They continued down the winding tunnels for a long time. It felt like hours, and there was a significant likelihood that it _was_ , but the whole trip was spent in silence.

Then they reached the other side of the tunnels, and the silence was broken as he muttered quietly.

“Woah”.

“Roll, please.”

The war room was not one he’d visited very often. As a child, he’d found the idea disturbing, and he simply never needed to as a teenager.

He could count the number of times he’d been here on one hand. By the end of the month, he’d likely need four.

“Rock. You crossed the border two days ago. You _saw_ our situation. Masterium’s been gaining ground since the start of the war—and no insignificant amount, either. I spare troops to do what you’re suggesting, and Bass will be at the castle’s walls in a month.”

“I did. But there must be _something_ we can do. They-“

A hand landed on his shoulder. He stopped himself from squirming, glancing at his sister. _“Rock._ Why are you doing this? To impress your escort? You know I would’ve helped, had they actually needed our help. They don’t.”

“One of the escorts died when crossing the border. Dead. As in, not coming back.”

“I know what ‘dead’ entails, Rock.”

His brow twitched. “So you understand that it’d be pathetic, then, for a prince to offer unconditional aid, be offered escort out of generosity, and then return empty-handed and missing a man. I… I’m not a liar. I _want_ to help them.”

Roll bit her lip, glancing around the room, then to the map, then back at him.

He kept his gaze on the map. The newly-formed green of Arcadia was an island amongst the red sea. It looked helpless from this perspective, even as every memory reminded him otherwise.

_You know I would’ve helped._

Rock paused, glancing up at Roll.

“Guarantee their independence, then.”

“Sorry?”

“You would’ve helped, had they needed it. Surely you _will_ help, if they need it, too?”

Roll paused for a moment, then grinned. “A guarantee, huh? You might not be so bad at this whole diplomacy schtick after all.”

Rock raised an eyebrow. “The sentiment was more so focussed on the military pact implications, but thank you.”

“Yes, yes,” Roll waved him off, “that too. I’ll send over a division as a sign of friendship, or whatever the technical term is. They better send one back, too,” she grumbled. “Happy?”

“I guess so.” He mused. “Thank you, Roll.”

“You owe me a favour after this.”

He nodded absently, leaving the room with a destination in mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written 41,000 so far, and I've got plenty of cushion. I'm feeling this fic should have about 27ish chapters? Yeah, we're only halfway there lol, but the end is in sight for me >:)
> 
> Edit: oh my fucking god


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck I keep forgetting to update on time lol

Torch supposed it made sense that a resistance effort was an underground operation.

The cavern could fit a small theatre, and there was no space left unused. A range, straw dummies, and a canteen were all visible from the entry point.

Tundra strode ahead without pause.

Hurrying to follow, they continued through the caves, then into another tunnel. This one was bigger. Grander.

Regal as tunnels went, considering they entered the throne room on the other side.

And yet the contrast felt off—like a visual joke. The stone floor was covered in a red carpet, a chandelier hung from the natural ceiling, and tapestries covered the damp walls. And in the centre, there was a throne—intricately carved from granite, because of course it was.

A king sat on it as if the scene was normal.

“Your majesty,” Tundra kneeled. He hurried to follow, bowing his head. “I failed.”

“I see,” the king spoke with a cadence of superiority. “Your last letter, two weeks ago, reported all as running smoothly. What changed?”

“The man beside me was sent by a Tsubakuro resistance effort to carry out the same task. By happenstance, we met, and the ensuing miscommunication caused both our plans to become unfeasible.”

“Why is he still alive?”

Torch suppressed a shiver. He hadn’t said it like a threat, or a venomous warning. He’d asked, as if his continued existence was a curious thing indeed.

“He did not impede me further,” Tundra hurried to elaborate, “and we escaped the castle with troops on pursuit. In a show of his impressive skill set, he drove off our pursuers. I then determined he would be useful to our cause.”

The king nodded slowly, as if sampling a dish.

“Very well. And Wily?”

“He’s in critical condition, and is unlikely to recover fully.”

“I see,” he intoned, in a voice that could’ve either meant he thought it was all bullshit, or that he believed every word. “upon morrow’s morning, the rebellion shall begin, and the capital shall be our primary target. I’m tasking you with the responsibility of assassinating the governor. And bring your stowaway with you, too.”

 _Stowaway?_ Fuckin’ hell.

“Yes, sir.”

“You may leave.” Tundra stood up, Torch hot on his heels. They fled the throne room in a mild hurry.

“You could’ve warned me about him,” he muttered once sufficiently far. “He’s-“

“A monarch, so I’d watch your words.” Tundra bit back.

“Alright, jeez.”

He followed Tundra, the air now tense between them.

But something was bothering him. “He wants us to create a plan to assassinate the governor overnight?”

Tundra glanced back at him, lips turned downwards at the edges. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll do the planning, we’ll do the assassination.”

That sounded like _shit_ delegation.

“Planning? What are you working off of?”

“Nothing. I’ll… do some reconnaissance tonight.”

Torch gaped. “It’s gotta be at least an hour to the capital—and that’s by horseback!”

“I know.”

“…Let me help.”

“No.”

“All I want is to help you-“

_“No.”_

Torch bristled. “Tundra, do you think I’m _useless?”_

The assassin turned to him, eyes fiery. “No. But would you like to know what I _do_ think you are? Incompetent at anything bar brute force. So you will let _me_ do the reconnaissance, and planning, and I will let _you_ carry out the result.”

Sorry, _what?_

“Fuck you.” He growled, clenching his fist. “And I thought we were getting along? I’d applaud you for how well you suppressed your shitty personality as of yet, but that would make it commendable. Fuck your king and his childish manners. Fuck everyone in this dark, damp, cesspit. But most importantly, _fuck you.”_

Tundra glared at him.

“I’ll be sure to say hi to the governor from you. And maybe a little more than that, too.”

And _that’s_ when his eyes widened. He slapped his hand over Torch’s mouth and glanced around. “You’ll do no such thing,” he hissed. “Come.”

He ripped the hand off, shaking his wrist from Tundra’s grip. He was being treated like a _child_ throwing a temper tantrum. How was _he_ the unreasonable one here!?

“You can’t control me,” he spat. “And _that’s_ what set you off? _Blackmail?_ I thought better of you.”

Tundra narrowed his eyes, glancing at the bland stone walls.

 _“Please,”_ he ground out. “ _Pozhaluysta,_ _don’t_ do that. They’ll kill you—you already botched my assassination attempt; leaving here with the knowledge of the resistance’s headquarters will doubtlessly end badly. So _please._ For your own sake.”

Torch blinked.

That… was a good point, as much as he hated to admit it.

“Uh,” he murmured. “Fine.”

He nodded for good measure.

Tundra nodded back. “Good. Good. Don’t get any equally dim ideas so long as you’re here.”

The Cossack sucked a breath in, then let it out in a sigh that grated Torch’s nerves. “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel comfortable with you accompanying me on missions that require not getting noticed. You’re very noticeable, for better or for worse—and in this case, it’s the latter.”

Torch stayed silent.

“I’m sorry.”

“Actions speak louder than words,” Torch shrugged.

“I know they do. You’ll be accompanying me tomorrow.”

“On the mission that doesn’t require actual skill?”

“On the mission that the entire rebellion is counting on,” Tundra rebutted.

He didn’t reply. The silence stretched.

“Please.”

“Please what?”

Tundra paused, contemplating. “…I don’t know.”

Torch nodded politely.

“…I. I suppose I should be going.”

“An hour on horseback, right? You should.”

Tundra didn’t reply, jerking his head tersely and walking away.

Gemini didn’t look thrilled. Rock didn’t expect him to, but it still brought a shameful tinge of red to his face.

“Guaranteed independence?” He hummed, testing out the idea. “I guess that’s the best we can hope for, what with the war raging on your end.”

Rock let his shoulders fall slightly, smiling. “Thank you, Gemini. I understand that it isn’t nearly as much as we might have hoped for, and I sympathise. I also understand if you hate me for being the cause of your fr- Drill’s death. And I apologise.”

“Uh, thank you, but I don’t _hate_ you for it. It’s obvious you tried your best.”

He nodded, relieved.

“But where will Blast go, now?”

“Sorry? Blast?” Rock cocked his head. That… hadn’t been the _first_ concern he’d predicted Gemini to bring up.

“Yes.”

“Well, I suppose—you two seem to get along splendidly, perhaps you could both return to Arcadia? With his time in the military and his escort of an Abelan prince, I’m sure the Arcadian resistance would happily accept him. Especially with your recommendation.”

He seemed to consider it, glancing out the window in thought. “Perhaps,” he hummed.

Blast glanced backwards as the door opened and Gem entered. His expression brightened, boredom replaced with elation. “Hey, Gem!”

“Hello.”

The rebel walked towards him slowly, eyes fixed on the window over Blast’s shoulder.

“You good? You look a bit distracted.”

“…I have a question to ask you,” he spoke slowly, stopping beside him in front of the window. Blast shuffled sideways to make room for him.

“Abel is guaranteeing Arcadia’s independence,” Gem commented.

“Guaranteeing- what? That’s not a question.”

“It means that if ever Masterium tried to invade us again, Abel would help us to the best of its ability.”

He grinned. “That’s great! I guess that’s all we could really hope for, considering you’re not actually at war and, well- they are.” He gestured at the land beyond the glass. The incline of the mountains gave them a perfect view over the rivers and plains far below, but you could almost see the destruction on the horizon.

“Yes, I guess you’re right.”

Okay, seriously, what was up with him?

“Gem?”

“Where will you go, now?”

That- oh.

His grin fell.

“I don’t know.”

That was a lie. He wanted to be with Gem, but chances that he’d allow it were slim.

“You don’t know?”

“…Nope.”

‘Rock,

I’

His quill paused on the page, pouring excess ink onto the parchment and forming a dark blotch. Huffing, he continued on valiantly.

‘love’

He crossed it out, then scribbled over it to make it illegible.

‘miss you. I truly hope you shall read this and reply with a letter of your own,’

Far too flowery to get the point across.

‘Send me a letter back.’

Why was this even here so early in?

‘I truly wish we weren’t on opposite ends of this honourless war;’

He didn’t even speak like that in person.

‘I really fucking miss you,’

That was just repeating his point.

‘I really wish we weren’t’

Bad phrasing.

‘I wish you were on my side.’

No, he didn’t, he’d facilitated Rock’s escape.

‘I wish I was on your side.’

No, he didn’t.

‘I wish you were with me. And I miss’

He _already said that-_

‘you so fucking much Rock please’

He tore the parchment into pieces.

Torch was sleeping on the floor of Tundra’s room.

Despite the dark light, it was the first thing he noticed when he returned. The moon had risen to its apex in the sky when he’d left the capital, and it had been sinking ever since. He’d been hoping for a few hours of sleep, but expecting less.

And then—Torch. Floor. Sleeping.

He slid the curtain back into place behind him, stepping forward.

Torch had clearly made very little effort to make the floor any less uncomfortable. He’d wrapped himself in a coat and curled up on the cold ground.

Gently, Tundra lifted him up and deposited him on the bed he’d foregone, pulling off the coat and replacing it with the blanket.

Wrapping the jacket around himself, he cast a glance at Torch before lying down near the desk.

He slept well.

Bass’s ink well was noticeably depleted.

‘Rock.

Meet me behind the Greenpark tavern on Saturday night. I need to talk with you.

-Bass.’

Letters couldn’t possibly get across what he wanted to say to Rock. What he wanted to tell him. That he needed to see him. Needed to touch him. Needed to smell him.

Needed _him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uwu


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

The city was cut up by wide, straight boulevards, far too visible to travel through inconspicuously.

The buildings that lined them were tall and straight, towering five, six, seven stories high in neat rows and lines that made sense—but confused him at the same time.

This wasn’t the kind of city he was used to.

It was a relief when they entered the maze of side streets. The close quarters felt safer.

He followed Tundra as he led him through sharp, angled turns down narrow alleys filled with mud, snow, and everything in between. He walked as if he’d long memorised the route, and they arrived at their destination before the thought of what he was doing, _again,_ struck him.

The city hall loomed over them.

From the back alley, the splendour and glamour were obscured: the rusticated stone and smooth red plaster were rougher and bleached a dazed pink.

They entered the back door of the adjacent tenement, climbing the stairs to the first floor, and walking down the hallway until they reached the window at its end.

Tundra heaved it open with a soft huff, crouching down so that he was mostly concealed. Facing them, on the other side of the alley, was the window of the governor’s office.

Tundra shot him a look, gesturing at him to get down. He did, watching as the assassin removed a light hammer from his pouch and passed it to him. They’d tested his accuracy on the range—it had been ‘sufficient’, but…

“Are you sure this’ll actually break the window?”

“ _Da_.”

“You have experience?”

“I have faith in you and your ungodly muscles. Now aim, swing, and let go.”

That… felt surprisingly good to hear.

Tundra pulled something else from his pouch, then: a grenade, one of the few Torch had had left from his assassination attempt on Wily.

Hefting the hammer to better understand its weight, he motioned Tundra to get out of the way. One, two, aim, let go.

The hammer arced through the air, smashing through the window and leaving a hole the size of his fist in its wake. A moment later, Tundra scrambled up and tossed the grenade through the shattered glass. They both ducked.

It went off two seconds and an eternity later, painfully loud despite his hands over his ears.

They didn’t have time to check, nor the will. Tundra rose to his feet and tugged him back towards the stairs, down to the ground floor and out the front entrance. They fled across the avenue, into a side street and once more navigated the maze until they reached the city walls.

He hadn’t had time to say anything, let alone regain his breath. Tundra wasn’t faring well either; he was clearly winded despite his straight face. And yet, he urged them both onwards.

They reached their horses a half-hour later, mounted them, and rode off.

It wasn’t until an hour passed and they returned to the caves that Torch finally felt safe again.

Gemini really wasn’t looking forward to this conversation.

He didn’t know which he dreaded more: Blast being angry or indifferent.

Nevertheless, he steeled himself and pushed the door open.

“Gem! Hey.”

Blast turned to him, expression lighting up and making this _so much harder._

“Hi.” He tried, and failed, if Blast’s cocked brow had anything to say about it.

“…Hi.”

Well, fuck. There went any chance of softening the blow.

“I’ll have to leave soon,” He blurted.

Blast’s eyes blinked, widened, then fell to the floor.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“…When?”

“Soon.” And then, grimacing at the look he received, “I don’t know, fully. Definitely within the week.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

He wasn’t looking at him, instead opting to place his gaze _literally anywhere else_. It made him feel like a monster.

“Stay?”

“I can’t.”

“Please?”

 _“Blast,”_ he pleaded, because if he continued then Gemini would give in and abandon his religion and _do whatever he asked._

“Sorry.”

He sighed. “No, _I’m_ sorry. I don’t want to go, believe me. But I have no choice; I’m a rebel soldier, I can’t exactly procrastinate.”

“Not at all?”

“Not at all.”

Blast sighed, locking eyes with him determinedly. “Then take me with you.”

He blinked.

“What?”

“Please.”

“I- Blast, there’s no way I can-“

“Why not?” He whined. “Give me three good reasons. You _can’t._ Why don’t you want me to come? I- it can’t be that you don’t like me, because I _know-“_

Gemini shushed him hurriedly. “One, it’s too dangerous. Two, they’ll be unlikely to accept you. Three, that’s not what you really want: you hated being in the army.”

“’Cause I was forced into it! I’m doing this willingly, Gem. I _want_ this, despite the danger, despite the prejudice. If I’m with you, then… I don’t mind the drawbacks.”

“I…” He started, losing his confidence.

No, he reminded himself, he couldn’t. He had to think of the consequences. Blast, bleeding out on the battlefield. Blast, an arrow in his neck. Blast-

He took a steadying breath.

“No.”

“Gem…” Blast pleaded. He sounded like a scared stray.

 _“No,”_ he repeated, hating the fact that his voice trembled.

It was for Blast’s sake, he reminded himself. Drill had died so easily. Blast would’ve died too, had the arrow been launched even a degree higher. It was for his own good.

“No. I can’t. I’m…”

“Gem?”

“ _Really fucking sorry_ ,” he murmured, leaving the room without glancing at Blast.

He closed the door behind him and ran.

Torch lay on the bed, ankles crossed and fingers interlocked on his stomach. Tundra wrote a report at his desk a metre away, and the silence between them spoke volumes.

It still bothered him, the words from last night.

Today, Tundra had contradicted himself. ‘I have faith in you’, he’d said, and that had been reassuring until the faith was transferred to his ‘ungodly muscles’. Did that still count?

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say that his physical ability and competence were interlinked, but he’d never been a fan of lying to himself.

His mind ran unwanted circles around itself, only stopping when Tundra rose from his seat and stretched sometime later.

He glanced at Torch, lips pulled into a convincing smile that would’ve fooled anyone else.

Torch had had enough of this.

“A speech filled with hate is filled with that which bothers the speaker most,” he recited.

Tundra grimaced, glancing at the door. “And yet a speech filled with hate speaks of nothing at all.” He countered.

“That’s not a saying.”

“Neither is what you said, here. In fact, Cossack begs to differ: ‘there is nothing less useful than the ramblings of passion’.”

“Of course it does,” was all he answered with.

Tundra sighed, taking a seat at the foot of the bed. Torch didn’t budge, eyeing him carefully.

“I am not a man accustomed to apologising—not truthfully, and certainly not to those of equal status. So please understand when I say that when I act in an odd manner, it is not belying insincerity. Far from it.”

Torch said nothing, but he nodded slowly.

“I.”

Tundra paused, shook his head briefly, tried to start again then promptly fell silent. He glanced at Torch, who unabashedly stared at him, then decided to resolutely stare at everything else in the room.

“Yeah?” He drawled.

“I apologise. I wasn’t in any sort of sensible mindset; whenever I see the king he has that effect on me—on everybody, I think, he’s slightly- very- he’s unnerving—but that’s beside the point. I was frustrated and took it out on you, and insulted the one trait thought I could: your forward-thinking, or lack thereof—but I’ve since realised that your ability to think on the spot is a blessing and has already saved us once. I immediately regretted saying it, but-“

Torch placed his hand on Tundra’s shoulder, and the motion made him stutter to a stop.

“If that incoherent mess wasn’t sincere, I’m not sure what is, Tundra.” A pause. “…Thank you.”

Tundra tensed, then relaxed with a sigh of relief.

“No, thank _you_. And, once more for good measure, I apologise.”

“Apology accepted,” he grinned.

The letter on his desk hadn’t been there when he’d left his room.

Rock frowned, delicately opening it, and pulling the parchment from within.

He hesitated, glancing away before his eyes could meet the writing.

He knew who it was (who he wanted it to be), but he likewise understood just how unhealthy it was to cling to whatever they’d developed despite the war.

He understood, yes—but that wasn’t stopping him.

He ripped the letter from its envelope before he could convince himself otherwise.

And blinked.

The Greenpark tavern? And he needed to _talk_ to him? Why didn’t he simply tell him what he needed to say in the letter he’d _just sent?_

And—Bass. Bass had written it. Apparently?

It took some searching to find anyone who recognised the name ‘Greenpark’. They hadn’t known much, beyond the fact that it was in the shady part of a town called Brigen.

Which was a five-minute walk from the trenches.

On the _Masterian side_.

It was a trick, he realised with sorrow.

There was no chance it was anything else. It was pathetic, and desperate, and poorly planned, but a trick was all it could ever be.

He tore the parchment until he could no longer read the writing, and threw it into the fireplace.

He watched it burn.

It wasn’t that hard to find Rock.

He was staring at the fireplace, enraptured, frozen where he stood. Gemini cleared his throat gently, and it was sufficient to startle him from his trance.

“Sorry!” He squeaked. “Sorry, were you saying something? I’m afraid I might not have heard you.”

“I wasn’t. Do you plan on telling me why the fireplace hypnotised you?”

“I’d… rather not.”

He blinked. “I see.”

“Did you… did you happen to come to me for something? I understand you’re leaving tomorrow? If you have any last requests, I’d be more than happy to fulfil them. It’s the least I could do.”

“Right,” he nodded, “actually, I did.”

Rock nodded back.

This… was harder than he thought it’d be.

“Yes, so,” he cleared his throat. “I’m worried about Blast.”

Rock cocked his brow, but stayed silent.

“I… don’t want him to be in any kind of danger. He wants to come with me, to join the resistance—but I rejected him. As in- I told him he couldn’t. I don’t want to see him hurt, and I have a feeling that that’s the least safe place I could take him.”

“…I see,” Rock chimed in, and Gemini realised he hadn’t yet voiced his request.

“I was wondering if you could perhaps grant him a way back to his home country, or maybe housing here in Abel? Temporary, if needs be—only to get him on his feet. There’ll probably be some culture shock, and that’s not fun when you’re alone, so forgive him if it takes him a while.”

The prince’s eyes brightened. “Of course, I’d be glad to! No ‘temporary’ needed: I _am_ the prince, after all, and I’ve come to consider both of you as friends. I’ll present him with his options at dinner.”

Gemini nodded gratefully, smiling for the first time in a while. “Thank you, Rock. I appreciate that.”

“Not at all,” he assured. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

It felt wrong, seeing Gem on his horse and knowing that he couldn’t follow. As if a constant that’d defined his life for the past month was…

Departing. _Bidding farewell._

And wasn’t that weird? He’d barely known Gem for a month, but he still felt that everything was off about this situation. Judging by the look on his face, Gem thought so too, despite his best efforts to hide it.

Why?

Why was he acting brave—why was he _being_ brave, when it was just so much easier, so much _happier,_ to be dumb?

God, he was starting to pose self-answering questions in his desperation. Not a good sign.

“Will you come back?”

Gem winced. “I… probably won’t.”

“…Okay.”

It wasn’t.

“Will you be alright?”

“Yup.”

Yup.

“Good. That’s good, I’ve. I’ve asked Rock to get you housing in Abel, so you can build your life here. He says you can stay there as long as you want.”

“Oh.” That’s nice.

It didn’t make him happy, though. Gem did. And he was _leaving_.

“Okay.”

And not coming back.

“Thanks.”

Gem nodded.

“So. Bye. Again.” Blast looked at the horse he was riding, glaring at it as if it was _its_ fault. Fuck it, it was. Fucking horses. If there were no horses, Gem would stay, wouldn’t he?

“Bye,” he muttered.

The horse huffed.

A few seconds passed, and then its reigns were pulled and it turned around. The horse sprang into a trot, away from the castle and down the courtyard.

With Gem on its back.

Fucking horses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, too, have an irrational hatred of horses


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big chapter time!

The next time they visited Cossack’s capital, it was slightly less picturesque.

 _Slightly_.

A few buildings were on fire. Just a few, though. Not _that_ many, in the grand scheme of things. And there were some street battles, granted, but when weren’t there, in a city this large? And so what if a lot of people had swords, and it was a cacophony of yells, and screams, and cries, because.

Okay, he had a hard time justifying that one.

It was difficult to stay focussed under the pressure of a city in civil war. It sounded too much like the battlefields he’d thought himself far removed from.

Not far enough.

On the upside, they were unlikely to be noticed. On the downside, the alleys were too cluttered with the wounded and the predators, so they’d instead opted to venture through the avenues.

It unnerved him.

He wasn’t sure why. Was it the fear of being assaulted? He could fight back. The sheer visibility? They were the least interesting pair on the entire street. Was it the resemblances with open warfare?

Yeah, actually. It was probably that.

A Molotov arced through the air from one ruined building to another across the street, and he flinched unwittingly as he heard it shatter. Clearly, the city had taken very little time to splinter into factions and territory.

A man charged across the street, musket gripped tightly in his fists as he ran someone through with the bayonet.

It was a harrowing ten minutes to the department of security’s headquarters.

There were, unfortunately, a myriad of armed soldiers when they arrived, but a hop over the wall and a trip through some shrubbery solved that problem. It was then a three-second dash to the backdoor, but the lack of any shouting meant they were probably safe.

Inside, the halls had the remnants of opulence. They were wide, colourful, and had arched ceilings, but it was cluttered with sandbags and barricades.

A twisted neck here and a bloodied dagger there, and they reached the general’s office (mostly) unnoticed.

The plan was simple, in theory.

They’d enter, assassinate the leader, and exit. Except the ‘exit’ part had been surrounded by several question marks and a few scratched out solutions.

Oh well.

They’d figure it out, hopefully.

Blast stared at the ceiling of the most opulent bedroom he’d ever slept in. It felt like a cage, without Gem.

God, when had these feelings crept up on him? Overnight? Gradually? Were they always there? None of those answers were satisfying. More importantly, none of them were _useful._

Gem was gone.

Gone.

G

O

N

E

Gone, so why did his mind _refuse to move on, too?_

Stupid mind, and stupid brain, and awful useless emotions that probably never helped him, anyway.

He hadn’t seen Rock since before Gem left, but he hadn’t _seemed_ annoyed that Blast wasn’t leaving. Then again, he was a prince. Masking his emotions probably came with the title.

Gem was convinced Arcadia was dangerous.

And yeah, he’d experienced first-hand—his yet-to-fully-heal ribs an alibi—the inherent danger of the place. But Gem spent so much time fretting about Blast’s health, that he’d completely overlooked his _happiness._

And if that wasn’t precisely his personal brand.

Blast groaned, too lazy to get up from the bed but too bored to continue staring at the ceiling. He compromised by rolling off the side and onto the floor, then crawling to the window.

Heaving himself up onto the sill, his legs splayed uselessly behind him.

He and Gem had gazed beyond this window not that long ago. Or rather, Gem had gazed beyond this window, and Blast had gazed at Gem.

Long, silver hair tied into a ponytail. Striking eyes never fully wide open, with emerald irises shadowed by his lashes.

Gorgeous.

He never thought he’d use the term for a man, but _damn_ did it fit Gem perfectly.

…He was about to make a very stupid decision, wasn’t he?

Rising from the bed, he ripped a page from his notebook and began hastily scribbling an apology.

_They really should’ve figured it out beforehand._

Tundra was… unconscious. Not dead, but _getting there._

_Fuck._

Fuck, shit, fuck. There was a gash in Tundra’s abdomen that looked too deep to be survivable, a multitude of cuts on his arms, and another deep gash on his thigh, which _hopefully_ hadn’t struck the artery.

He hadn’t been unconscious the whole time. They’d staggered-hopped-ran back to their horses and fled to the rebel headquarters, and he’d only realised Tundra was out cold when he’d dismounted at the palace and Tundra hadn’t followed.

And now, Torch was carrying him _bridal-style_ through a cave network he’d only navigated a _handful of times_ , a lantern clutched painfully between his teeth and clanging against his chest with every stride, all with _Tundra’s life in his hands-_

Fuck!

He burst into the cavern, spitting the lantern from between his teeth and yelling out for help.

A group of men and women who seemed to know what they were doing lifted Tundra gently from his arms, and carried him away. Torch followed them, darting his head between their bodies to catch a glance of Tundra, as if his constant oversight was the one thing keeping him from slipping away.

It felt like that.

He growled, then shouted, then pleaded with the man that blocked his entrance to the operating theatre. None of them worked, so he flopped down and progressed torturously through an abridged version of the five stages of grief.

He stayed huddled on the ground for a long time, no one willing to disturb him.

Rock hadn’t seen Blast at dinner, which had decidedly worried him. Perhaps he was mourning Gem’s departure? Their parting had seemed very much alike to his and Bass’s, from where he’d viewed it on the balcony.

And that hadn’t been fun, not in the slightest.

He opened the guestroom’s door.

And Blast wasn’t there.

…Oh no.

He was a millisecond from calling for a guard when he spotted the note left on the desk.

He picked it up.

‘Thank you, Rock, for how kind you’ve been.

Our adventure was exactly what I thought it’d be, back when I first joined you guys (good, I’d thought it’d be good).

I don’t want to bother you any more than I already have, but let’s be honest here. I think we both know that’s not the full reason why I’m going. I’m going cause I’m like, _very_ sure that I’ve fallen in love with that complete idiot.

You know, the one with the silver hair and emerald eyes? Yeah, that one. Name starts with G. Rhymes with ‘jemini’.

He’s good boyfriend material, don’t you think?

And he isn’t getting away from me that easily.

-Blast’

There was absolutely no way this was a good idea.

It was a trick. A lie. And a badly-crafted one.

And he was willingly falling right into it.

He wouldn’t say Blast had _inspired_ him. Only really that the man’s devil-may-care attitude and nye hedonistic tendencies seemed mighty interesting.

And that he was giving it a try.

It was the tail end of a two-day journey down to and past the frontlines, but he was here now with a few hours to spare. Brigen was small, as far as towns went. The centre had a plaza the size of the castle’s chapel, and it was only a three-minute walk from the walls to the town hall.

From there, he’d followed a trail of signposts to Greenpark, which ironically enough had neither a park nor any greenery.

Shady—that was the word the servant had used. It was an understatement, Rock discovered.

But here he was, and he didn’t quite feel like turning back for another fruitless two-day journey. Not without at least meeting whoever had sent him the letter.

And so, he entered the tavern.

It was grungy, and dimly lit, and quiet as far as taverns went. The quiet then amplified into complete pin-drop silence as he stepped in fully, and people turned to stare.

He realised, belatedly, that his affairs didn’t quite fit with those of the villagers.

His conviction was melting away fascinatingly quickly.

Nevertheless, he steeled himself and continued forward, to take a seat at the bar where the bartender stared at him.

He didn’t even get to start his order.

Footsteps approached him from behind, but he turned around too late as he was pulled off the stool and into the unforgiving arms of his assailant.

He snarled, attempting to elbow the man behind him, but he did little more than grunt. He tried to headbutt him, but he either missed, or the man dodged.

Damn, damnit, why was not even one person doing something? Not even _one?_

Every struggle he put up was quashed by the attacker as he was dragged out the backdoor.

He was a second from foregoing his dignity and calling for help, but then he was spun around and slammed into a wall and lips met his ferociously.

…What?

_What?_

No. No, no, he didn’t want this! He’d always wanted his first to be with _Bass,_ not with some random criminal about to molest him! This was what he got for being so _stupid,_ so _naïve,_ so _gullible-_

The lips pulled away, and he opened his eyes when he heard the man’s voice.

“Rock.”

It was husky with lust, and want, and something else, and it was deeper than usual—but he recognised it anyway.

“Bass?” He whispered.

He didn’t reply, instead surging forwards again and pushing his lips against Rock’s, but this time the prince didn’t shut his eyes tightly; he stared, wide-eyed, and took in Bass’s face.

His eyes closed as he pressed further against Rock, brows furrowed in determination. He’d never seen it from this close, with their mouths on each other, and from here he could pick out every detail, every blemish, everything that made him beautiful.

Everything that made him _Bass._

When he next pulled back, his eyes were half-lidded. Rock gazed at his irises, mesmerised. He barely caught the start of his rant.

“You fuckin’ idiot,” Bass growled, “what were you thinking? At least put on a _cloak,_ or something! Half of everyone in that tavern would go to disgusting lengths to deliver your head to Wily! I don’t even blame them; it’d get them so much coin they’d be lifted out of poverty and dropped into the _Masterium elite!”_

“Bass…” was all Rock managed.

He growled a low, guttural sound, leaned in for what was essentially a very ferocious peck, then pulled back again.

“It isn’t even close to safe here anymore. C’mon. Follow me.”

Bass grabbed his hand, yanking him forward as he pulled Rock from where he leaned on the wall. He stumbled, but Bass didn’t relent as he led him at a running pace through the back alleys of Brigen.

He was panting by the time Bass deemed the distance sufficient.

“This’ll do,” he muttered.

Rock huffed breathlessly. “Wonderful. Splendid. Are we going to talk about what this is now, or…?”

“Nope,” he popped the ‘p’, and pushed him up against the nearest wall for the second time in as many minutes.

Rock made the bare minimum noise of protest, then stopped at that as he melted into the kiss. It burned hot in the summer air; a brand that claimed him in searing relief.

Bass pulled back every so often to catch his breath, but the pauses never lasted long and he wanted it like that.

Rock’s hands were bunched tight in the fabric on Bass’s back, clinging on as the general ravished his mouth. Bass’s hands were surer, one a reassuring pressure on his back, the other cradling his head to stop it from hitting the wall every time he wanted more.

And he wanted _more,_ if the tongue that ran across his lips spoke of anything at all.

Rock pulled back with a gasp, burying his face in Bass’s neck.

“We…” he panted, “we really should be talking about this.”

Bass tipped his chin up, eyes ablaze as their gazes locked. “All you need to know is who you belong to. Do you?”

And _god,_ if that wasn’t the most arousing thing he’d ever heard in his life—and yet Bass was staring at him, so Rock tried to answer. “ _Goodness,_ y-you, Bass. I-“

And apparently, that was all he needed to say, because Bass dove back in with a satisfied growl that reminded him of thunder.

This time, he let his mouth part slightly, and Bass took full advantage. His tongue thrust in, tasting him, and it was wet, odd, new, but _wonderful._ Rock reciprocated the best he could, following Bass’s lead and swirling his tongue around its counterpart.

He pulled back, panting. Their laboured breaths fogged the air, condensing on each other’s faces. Or maybe that was sweat. Both? Possibly.

He bit his lip on a whimper.

This was—this wasn’t what he’d expected their reunion to be like. Make no mistake; Rock _loved_ it. But he’d imagined encompassing embraces, comfortable beds, and chaste kisses that made it all worth it. And, yes, he might’ve imagined slightly more on some particular mornings, but not… not like this.

In a dingy back alley, on opposite sides of a war that continued to rage, kept clandestine like a dirty secret. He didn’t want to be that. He wanted them to be free, together.

Then he whispered Bass’s name, and as was becoming a pattern, that broke his patience.

His cheeks were on fire as Bass explored him, and his attention drifted slowly to another part of his body rapidly filling with blood. Ah- that, that probably meant they should stop. God, he didn’t want to, but-

He moaned, caught off guard, as Bass ground their erections together.

Rock pushed him back then, hands hovering on hard pecs as Bass dipped down and kissed, tongued, and bit his neck- and that _hurt,_ but the pleasure trumped the pain embarrassingly quickly.

“Bass, please,” he stopped himself from moaning again. Focus. _Focus._ The battlefields of corpses a few kilometres away. Trenches with horrifying conditions. People returning home with infected wounds and botched amputations.

It worked enough for him to muster up the will to try again, and he _pushed._

Bass grunted, seemingly unhappy with the newfound distance between them. “Rock,” he warned.

He stopped himself from shivering.

“Bass, I’m serious. Either we talk, or…”

He smirked. “Or what? You’ll walk away? You’re mine, as you’ve already admitted.”

Bass was clearly trying his best to make Rock implode. He was succeeding.

“That- what? How does that factor into this?” He shot back. “Look, alright. I think we both know I won’t walk away—so stop _smirking already—_ but I _do_ have something you don’t: patience. I won’t let you kiss me for the rest of the day unless we communicate.”

That was sufficient. Bass contemplated it for a moment, huffed, then stepped back with a grimace. “Fine. There. What did you want to say?”

Ah- he probably should’ve thought of a coherent way of saying it first.

But it wasn’t his fault! How was he supposed to focus when Bass was doing _that_ with his tongue?

Off-topic. He sighed. “I…”

Bass quirked a brow when he didn’t continue. His gaze felt flammable.

“Alright, it won’t be my most eloquent speech, but stay silent until the end, alright?”

The brow rose higher, but he nodded.

“Good. Alright, so. This… I like this, I really do! But I want our first time to be in someplace respectable, not around the corner from an open sewer, probably. And frankly, as we both experienced _quite explicitly,_ those kisses are slightly counterproductive for that measure.”

Bass’s lips thinned. “Uh-huh? Look, this whole fairy tale love story you think we have is cute. Adorable. One of the reasons I want to fuck you so badly. But It’s not doing you any favours, if you haven’t noticed yet.”

He continued over Rock’s spluttering. “So look. I won’t _force_ it on you, but what exactly are you waiting out on? This war to end?”

His tone changed, and he took a step closer. Their faces nearly touched, but he made no further move. “I’m weakening your defences as the days pass, prince. We’ll see each other soon enough one way or another, why don’t you make it easier for the both of us?”

Rock dodged from beneath him, taking a long step away from any kind of wall he could be caged against. “Are you asking me to _surrender,_ despite my fighting chance, despite the fact that Wily will _exploit_ Abel?”

Bass shrugged, grinning. “Or don’t. Makes victory taste all the sweeter, y’know.”

“Don’t talk like that,” he whispered. “You’re scaring me.”

Bass blinked, glancing away briefly. When he looked back, he had a mildly concerned expression. “Okay. I mean- sorry.”

He didn’t relax. “What was _that?”_

“…Nothing?”

“Mm-hm.”

Bass looked stricken, taking a step back. “Look, that was a bit… uh,”

“ _Frightening_ ,” Rock filled in.

“Yeah,” he winced, “that. Sorry. Again. I just missed you. _Miss,_ actually, even if you’re right there.” He gestured to Rock, two paces away. “I’ve looked forward to today for a while now, so I… acted weird. Sorry?”

He hesitated. Bass had changed, from the last time they’d seen each other.

But that didn’t change the fact that he was still _Bass._

“Apology _dubiously_ accepted.”

Bass smiled, but fidgeted where he was, making no move to get closer. Rock’s heart was pathetically weak for him.

He groaned, marching up to Bass and wrapping his arms around him. “Alright. Apology _fully_ accepted. There.” He hesitated, then decided that hesitating wouldn’t help at all and leaned forward for a careful kiss.

Bass grinned into it, back to the excitable general that was attractive and dangerous but still _kind._

Neither tried to deepen it, for which Rock was glad. Despite however much he was fighting back verbally, his will wouldn’t withstand another kissing session. They were intoxicating—but unexpectedly frightening, too.

As much as a lustful Bass was an arousing one, his sense of reason grew even more stunted when-

Kissing. Like _that_. Among other things.

Bass pulled back, grin ever-plastered on his face. “I missed you. Just need to make sure you caught that part. Like, a lot. A _very_ lot.”

The joy was infectious. “I missed you too, you brute.”

The passing of time accelerated as they kissed. Not in the heady, heavy way that it had earlier. It was soft and gentle, now. Like being in that state of utter comfort upon waking up following a restful night.

But the day was finite, and it grew to a close as the sun cast darkening shadows on the scene.

It was Rock, as always, that begrudgingly filled the role of the voice of reason. “Bass, the sun’s setting.”

He grinned in reply. “Romantic, isn’t it?”

That startled a laugh out of Rock, but he forced himself to continue. “Yes, undoubtedly so. However, you’re likely needed elsewhere, and I’m _certainly_ needed elsewhere. It was a _two-day journey_ here, I hope you know, you inconsiderate-“

He was silenced by a peck.

“Bass, you truly must stop doing that!”

“Doing what?”

He grinned, despite himself. “…Nothing at all. Farewell, Bass.”

He sobered. “See you.”

Neither moved.

“…You sure you can’t stay just one night?”

Rock flushed. “Quite.”

“Damn.”

Rock leaned in again, convincing himself that this was the _last_ kiss. A goodbye kiss.

Bass reciprocated, noticeably less reservedly than before.

It would’ve been so easy to simply stay. So much easier than the daunting ride back, or the suspicion and beratement that would undoubtedly face him there.

…But if there was one thing he and Bass excelled at, it was taking the unnecessarily challenging route.

“Goodbye.”

“Bye,” Bass echoed.

He didn’t look back as he found his way back to his horse.

He didn’t dare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wOOHOO THAT GOT STEAMY
> 
> ...The porn cums in the next chapter ;)


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✨porn✨

The next time Tundra awoke, he was in the headquarters’ medical wing. Torch sat beside him, looking by all means as if he’d had a falling out with sleep. The room was empty bar him and the other patients.

“ _Privet_ ,” he rasped.

The next few seconds were a flurry of actions. One: Torch’s eyes flit over to his. Two: they widened. Three: a grin broke across his face, shining like the sun in the darkness of the cave. Four: “Tundra!”

Five: He dove down and kissed him.

He had little time to recover, Torch’s lips crushing his briefly before pulling away. Despite the deep bags beneath his eyes, he rambled as if on a sugar rush.

“Tundra, you’re alive! I mean—the doctors had said so, too—but you’re awake! They only let me in a day or so ago, and they’ve left me alone since then, thank fuck. Are you alright? Does anything hurt? Want me to get you anything? Water? I don’t see any food nearby, but I’m sure that they-“

“Torch,” he interrupted, grin clashing with his reprimand. “Have you slept?”

It took a moment for the elation to sink in. For however clumsy, rushed, and sudden the kiss had been, it’d also been passionate. And that made up for everything and more.

Torch stopped, putting half a thought into it before nodding. “Probably. Yes.”

“Probably?”

“Yes!”

Tundra cocked a brow. “When was the last time?”

“Depends. What time is it?”

There was no clock in the room, for the sheer lack of any flat surfaces, but the answer was worrying nonetheless. “You needn’t go that far in-depth. Is it afternoon, evening, night…?”

Torch looked around, “morning? Very, very early morning.”

He hadn’t slept at all, had he?

Tundra sighed, exaggerating it to cover up any creeping fondness. “Torch. Your body requires sleep.”

The mere notion seemed to appal him. “What? But- our room’s on the other side of the base. I can’t make that; my legs’d probably collapse three steps in!”

_“All the more reason to rest.”_

“On the floor? C’mon, let’s talk, instead. U-unless _you’re_ tired. Then I’ll leave you alone.”

“I am,” he intoned, “I’m recovering from a wound that could’ve been lethal.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Tundra grimaced, wishing he could take it back. “ _Net,_ don’t be. Conversation forever triumphs over being alone, by my standards.”

Torch nodded, far less exuberant than he had been moments ago. “Yeah.”

He bit his lip to keep from telling him that the bed could fit two.

It probably couldn’t, anyway.

“G’night, then.”

“Goodnight, Torch.” He watched him leave, steps dragging with a mixture of fatigue and disappointment.

Absently, he lifted a finger to his lips, ghosting over the surface.

Rock whined, mouth parted in wanton pleasure as Bass ground against his cleft again.

His ass was warm, despite the layers of separation. Inviting.

“Take off your clothes,” Bass ordered into his neck. Rock nodded, rushing to comply in intoxicating lust. He watched, palming himself slowly as the silken shirt was removed, exposing a lean frame and subtle muscles. The trousers and the underwear beneath them came off next.

The view was befitting of a masterpiece painting: beauty flowed like a river from his legs to his shoulders—and then it stepped into gorgeous territory, because his neck was already red in spots from where Bass hadn’t held himself back, and his face was his own, therefor breath-taking.

“Don’t just stand there!” Rock blushed. _Gorgeous._ “This is starting to feel _slightly_ one-sided.”

“I’ll show you reciprocation,” he purred. He stepped forward, closing the gap with another heated kiss. One hand slid down Rock’s back to his ass, a finger rubbing his entrance teasingly. It was already prepped. His other hand hurriedly pulled down his trousers, just enough to release his cock.

It sprang forward, slapping against Rock’s thigh. He grabbed the length, pumping it roughly as it swelled to full-mast and he plunged a finger into Rock’s entrance.

He moaned, and Bass responded with a grunt of satisfaction. He stroked Rock’s walls, which sent his neck back as he whined, and fuck. It was already riddled with bites, what was one more?

Rock gasped breathlessly in response, glancing down at him through lidded eyes—then down further, at his throbbing cock as he ground it lazily against the prince’s naval.

“Oh goodness,” he choked. Bass barked a laugh. His length was good and all, but the thick girth was what he was proud of.

“Nobody’s gonna save you now, Rock.”

“If anyone tries, I’ll have them hanged,” he replied breathily.

Bass’s patience snapped. It had no chance.

“Good.” He huffed, hiking up Rock’s thighs against his waist and holding him against the wall for support. Rock crossed his legs behind Bass’s lower back, ever compliant.

He lined the uncut head up with his entrance, pushing against it just enough to break its resistance but not yet going further. “’Cause I’m not stopping.”

Rock cried out as he thrust in forcefully, nails cutting against his back from where they clung onto him. Bass let him, too distracted by the hot constriction around his cock—and he was barely halfway in.

When he sunk in further, Rock surged forward, kissing Bass far more sloppily than he’d allowed just minutes earlier. Their tongues danced together, a distraction that had Rock relaxing for a crucial second.

In a final jab forward, he thrust the rest of his cock into Rock until his hips met his ass with a sharp slap.

Rock cried out, clenching tightly around his girth. Bass murmured vague words of comfort and apology into his ear, stroking his back leisurely. “There ya go, babe. Just like that, taking my cock so well,” he purred.

Rock clung on tighter, quaking.

“Nod when you’re okay.”

Bass ground against his ass, groaning as he let him adjust. He made small thrusts, pushing his cock deeper still into Rock while he waited. Eventually, he nodded.

Bass grinned. His dick slid out smoothly, coated in a thin sheen of oil. Pulling out until just the tip remained, he let the anticipation build.

He leant forward, his breath ghosting against Rock’s ear. “Beg for it.”

A shudder racked through his lithe form, and he whined. “Please.” He watched Bass through lidded eyes, so fucking _innocent_ even as his cock threatened to spear him open again.

“Please? I can’t even tell what you’re asking for, Rock.”

“Fuck me.” He whispered, cheeks flaming as he glanced away.

He’d made the prince swear. It shouldn’t have felt as euphoric as it did.

“Good boy,” he teased, gathering Rock’s wrists into one hand and pinning them above his head. “I’ll make this good for both of us.”

He buried himself in his hole with a snap of his hips. Rock threw his head back, an illegal mixture of a whimper and a moan tearing from him.

He pulled back, plunging in again in a smoother motion. Rock’s hole squelched as his cock bottomed out. With his free hand, he grabbed the back of Rock’s neck and tugged him forward, drowning him in a ravenous kiss as he set a hard and thorough pace.

Neither made any particular effort to silence themselves, the vicinity filling with grunts, moans, and whimpers each time Bass pulled out and dived back in. Through it all, the slaps, slick slurps, and squelches drove him crazy.

“Bass!” Rock cried out as he slammed particularly deep. “There! Oh goodness- there!” His ankles locked tighter around his muscled lower back, pulling him in. Bass obliged him, pounding in harder against the spot that’d made him cry out. It worked, and a litany of ‘oh’s and ‘ah’s streamed from his mouth.

His pace was beginning to break down, devolving into fast, brutal thrusts against that same spot. His mouth spewed filthy curses as he pumped in again and again, hand tightening around Rock’s wrists.

He leant forward, smashing their mouths together again. Rock reciprocated ferociously, pushing back with as much vigour and desperation as his thrusts sped up.

His shirt brushed against Rock’s dick, inciting a moan into his mouth. He looked down at the fully erect, neglected member, and smirked.

His hand wrapped around it, squeezing experimentally as Rock gasped against his lips, moaning a lewd noise. “Stop,” he pleaded. “I’m too close. I’ll-“

“I know, he interrupted, jabbing his cock in with a simultaneous stroke of Rock’s. “That’s the plan.”

“No, please- ahh, Bass! Stop- I’m-“

Cumming, Bass thought absently, watching the translucent fluid spurt from his dick and land on his abdomen. Bass fucked him through it, pounding his hips forward even as Rock’s cries turned from ecstatic to overwhelmed.

“Bass- ah! P-please, slow down! Ah- oh goodn- _ah!”_ He pleaded, tears pricking the corner of his eyes.

“Shit- sorry, babe, _hah,_ just a little fuckin’ longer, love ya you little, fuckin-”

His thrusts sped up, slamming his cock into Rock’s tight, wet entrance once, twice, thrice. His balls tightened, a low growling noise rumbling from his throat that was surely too feral to be fully human-

And he came, gasping, cum splattering against his abdomen and up to his pecs as he pumped his cock through the aftershocks, groaning.

It took a few seconds for his heart rate to slow.

“Fuck…” He moaned, his muscles relaxing as he slumped against the mattress.

“Rock…”

Rock stared at the letter, painfully aware of heat blossoming in his crotch as the location seared into his mind.

This was dangerous. This was so much more than another scandal for the nobles to enjoy; it was treason. And yet he couldn’t get enough of it, and one statement led to the other but he wasn’t sure which it was.

But he did know he wanted Bass.

And, despite their last encounter, it exceeded lust on every front.

It was-

No. He needed to think more clearly. It was too soon to call it more than simple affection. Wasn’t it? Because he might’ve felt cosy in his presence, and he might’ve done anything to see him smile, and his dreams might’ve been plagued by him, but…

But he-

Oh goodness. He was in love, wasn’t he?

With the worst _possible_ candidate.

And yet however much the diplomatic part of his mind wailed in dissatisfaction—at the plentiful host of suitors that _wouldn’t_ cause an international scandal, the rest of him truly couldn’t care less.

Because it was Bass.

“Yes, your highness?”

He hadn’t even noticed the servant’s arrival.

“I shall be departing morrow’s morning. Do tell my father, if you’d be so kind.”

The servant bowed politely, setting off without delay.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

He hadn’t meant to kiss Tundra! It’d been—impulse. He’d just been elated, alright? There’d been a notable chance that Tundra wouldn’t wake up. And that’d _terrified_ him. So it was fine. It was normal.

But he wasn’t meeting Tundra’s gaze, and that was probably incriminating.

It didn’t help that he didn’t know what they were. He’d had best friends before; best friends laughed, and joked, and depended on each other.

And probably saved each other’s lives on a semi-regular basis. Right?

Fuck. No, that wasn’t right. That was edging into extra-platonic territory. He didn’t want that.

Did he?

Did he want to wake up next to Tundra, or kiss him like it was normal, or…

…Yes, he realised miserably. Yes, he really did.

But more important than his desires were Tundra’s—and if the less than elated response in the medical ward had been any indication at all, he didn’t feel the same.

“Torch.”

The man in question startled, whipping around to stare at Tundra. “Don’t startle me like that!”

“My apologies,” he smiled. It melted his heart in the best way possible.

Oh shit.

“What did you want?” He rushed out, ignoring the thought.

Tundra furrowed his brow. “I thought it obvious.” Torch couldn’t muster a reply.

“What… what, precisely, was that at the hospital? I just want to make sure all is clear.”

“Uh,” he stammered, face colouring. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Tundra’s frown deepened.

“Nothing.”

“…You kissed me.” It sounded like an accusation.

“…Yes. Sorry.”

Tundra huffed, glancing away. “Sorry? What are you apologising for? I… that didn’t feel platonic.”

“I was just happy. That you were alive.”

 _“Da_ , you said as much,” he grunted. “So… there were no romantic origins?”

“I-“ he flustered. “I don’t know. Do you wish there were?”

“It’s a yes or no question, Torch. Please answer it.”

“…No.”

“No?”

“None at all.”

Tundra nodded slowly. “I see.” His expression was unreadable. “In that case, I suppose we can put that behind us.”

“Yeah,” he breathed in relief. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

Tundra nodded again. “Alright. Thank you for answering my question honestly.”

This was beginning to feel drawn out. That _was_ the answer Tundra had wanted, right?

Oh shit, he was beginning to have doubts.

“Tundra-“

“It’s alright, Torch. No harm done.” He hurried away.

Numerous doubts.

He didn’t even know if being gay was alright in Cossack. Back in Tsubakuro, it was barely tolerated—but he’d seen much worse than ‘tolerated’.

He cursed every deity he could remember the name of.

 _Fuck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✨it was a wank fantasy✨


	21. Chapter 21

Torch was on the floor.

Again.

He refused to take the bed, and Tundra refused to let him sleep on the cold, wet ground. It felt wrong to let him keep doing this. Torch had saved him, then waited by his side for a day without complaint, and now he insisted on making a bed out of the cave’s floor.

He deserved better.

“Torch?” He called out softly.

“…Yeah?” Came the smooth, baritone reply.

Oh, to hell with it.

“This bed has room for two.” It would be a squeeze. It could be slightly uncomfortable. But it would ease his mind, and it would make _Torch_ more comfortable, and _that_ trumped all else.

“…It does?” Came the oddly hopeful response.

Tundra grinned in the darkness. “Indeed.”

“Oh.” There was a long silence, and then a sound of shuffling. “Can I…?”

Tundra manoeuvred towards the wall, making space on the bed. “Of course.”

Without any light, he could only vaguely make out Torch’s outline as he got up, but he felt the blanket rise and the mattress sink as he got in. He refrained from letting a sigh escape: the added warmth almost made the bed _comfortable._

The body beside him was still tense, though.

“Torch?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you alright? You’re rather stiff. I know the mattress isn’t palace-worthy, but surely it beats the ground.”

He felt more than saw Torch nod. “Oh, it’s fine! Great. But—ah, nothing.”

_“Yerunda.”_

“What?”

“Bullshit.”

Another elongated pause, and then: “…Is this normal?”

“I dare not say our _situation_ is normal.”

“Yeah, but still. Does your culture find this… sharing a bed thing common?”

“That depends. What are we?”

“Men?”

Tundra blinked. _“Us._ What are _we?”_ Torch still hadn’t relaxed. “…Friends.”

Tundra paused, then nodded. “Then no. But it’s as I said: our situation is not normal.”

Torch nodded.

Still stiff.

He sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder. He barely had the space to do so. “Just accept it, Torch. If you try and get back on the floor I’ll be joining you.”

A short exhale, presumably laughter.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“You mustn’t.”

Rock was already there when he arrived. He was leaning against the alley’s wall, arms crossed and eyes furtively glancing at every movement in the corner of his eyes. Bass didn’t give him a moment’s warning, sprinting forward and crushing him against the wall. “Ah!” He yelped, and then Bass’s lips were sealing his and he relaxed.

He pulled back, purring through a wicked grin. “Fuck, I missed you.”

“…Me too,” Rock replied breathlessly. Fuck. His dick was already hard in his pants and Rock _wasn’t helping._

He dove back in, wasting no time as he pushed his tongue into his mouth. Rock moaned around it, hands finding Bass’s shoulders and hanging on against the torrent. Their position was already starting to mimic his fantasies. It was temptation incarnate.

He pulled back for breath, leaning into Rock’s ear as he murmured. “I jack off to you every night, Rock. C’mon, I’ve been waiting for this for so _long.”_ He punctuated the last word with a deep and satisfying grind that had Rock whimpering. “Wait, Bass-”

“Say my name again,” he growled, mind hazy with lust.

“Ba- no. Bass, goodness, _wait.”_ Rock pushed him away, and he let him. His face was flushed, and his mouth parted slightly as he caught his breath. It reminded him of how he looked as Bass had ploughed into him. He was so fucking _hot_ , it was _unfair_.

Nonetheless, he stopped. “Yeah?”

“Wait.”

“I’m waiting.”

“…Good. Keep doing that.”

That sounded like an awful idea. He ground their members together again. “For how long?”

“Do you not know the _meaning of the word?”_ Rock snapped, putting a lot more effort into the shove this time. Bass grimaced. “I do. Waiting never lasts forever.”

He didn’t rebut, hastening to change the subject. “Why are we still at war, Bass? This,” he gestured between them, “This is _treason._ For the both of us. Abel is not a vengeful country. We won’t be averse to signing a treaty. We’d possibly even accept the current borders, too. Bass—I’m handing you peace, _and territory,_ on a silver platter.”

“Fuck that,” was his simple reply.

 _“Why?”_ Rock croaked, lips downturned as if tasting something bitter. He wanted to kiss it better. “Why do you want war so much? I thought I knew you. You were a _good person._ And now you’re a- a… I don’t know you.”

“You don’t _just_ know me,” he warned. “You _need_ me, too. Like I do you.”

“You are gravely mista-“

“And you wanna know why I’m not taking your silver platter, Rock?” He interrupted.

“No.”

“It’s ‘cause you’re _mine,_ prince.” He growled. “And when your castle’s walls come crumbling down, you’ll know it, too.”

He muffled Rock’s protests with another deeper, more forceful kiss. He struggled, but as the kiss lasted longer he stopped. His muscles were still tense, and when Bass pulled back he wasn’t bothering to hide his grimace.

“Any other questions?” He purred.

“None,” Rock replied, terse. “But I’m not _yours._ I’m not your _property,_ Bass. Stop.”

Why was Rock _resisting_ so damn much?

“I _own_ you, bitch.” He snarled.

“I-“

“You can run, but you sure as hell can’t hide. And you know the best part?” He leaned in closer, until he was growling the words against Rock’s lips. “You can’t even fight back, either.” A look of rage flew across Rock’s face, there was a bit of shuffling, and then suddenly Bass couldn’t breathe. It was all he could do not to collapse as he staggered back, mouth open, miming a gasp.

“Feel that? I hit your solar plexus. Do you remember when you’d done that to me, when we sparred? It feels like so long ago. You fret over me, making sure I was alright. That was the Bass I fell in love with. _You,_ are not.”

He still couldn’t breathe.

“I may have less stamina. I may have smaller muscles. But you thought I was helpless, and now you’re suffering the consequences.” Rock’s voice was filled with a hate that cleared every last bit of haze that lingered in his mind. The words speared through his heart, now, and he deserved it.

Then finally, he gasped. Air came. A short coughing fit followed. Looking up, Rock was watching him with an unreadable expression.

Their eyes locked, and Rock looked away.

“Do you want a third chance? I’m not giving it to you. Goodbye, Bass.” In his weakened state, he couldn’t follow the retreating footsteps. He wasn’t sure if he even would’ve, had he been able.

The farewell echoed through his mind.

“No-“ he coughed, air catching in his throat.

“No…”

Tundra watched Torch train a bit more intently than he usually did.

It was odd—most men preferred to train with bows, spears, or swords—but not Torch. He pummelled the training dummy with a flurry of kicks, punches, and jabs, and the weapons rack lay untouched a few metres away. It was new and fascinating, and it certainly helped that Torch was currently topless, but he preferred the first two excuses to stare.

But he couldn’t simply appreciate a well-built body. No, his mind was far too complicated for that.

It was- a shame.

The kiss.

Not the kiss itself: that was far from the crux of the problem. It was simply the fact that, well. It was platonic? And yet every part of him doubted that it was. Of course, there was no definite evidence that it wasn’t. But in an equal manner, all the evidence that it _had_ been was severely tattered by Torch’s complete lack of surety.

Or, perhaps, he was simply projecting. It was possible.

But _chert poberi,_ it wasn’t very _likely._ He’d honed his senses to a finer point than _projection._ He could tell, clear as day, that it wasn’t simply platonic. Maybe Torch wanted it to be? Maybe it was romantic, but he simply wished it hadn’t been? That he was- _regretting_ his non-decision.

Maybe.

After their fight—it felt like so long ago, now; everything before the assassination did—there had been no conclusion. No balm over open wounds. Perhaps he yet held a grudge against him even as he harboured the crush, despite the fact that he’d apologised.

No, in fairness, he wouldn’t have forgiven himself, either. Such a ‘revelation’, as Torch must’ve viewed it as, did not wash away under water. He couldn’t gain forgiveness from a mere apology, but it was a good starting point. Perhaps rehashing his feelings on the matter with him would help.

“Torch,” he called out. The man startled, nearly stumbling off balance as he came back onto two feet from a vicious kick. “Tundra! I thought I told you to stop startling me.” He admonished.

Tundra smiled deviously.

There was a brief moment of realisation as Torch glanced down at his exposed torso, then back up at Tundra, and the shirt near his feet. He took an aborted half step forward, then backward, then sighed out as a hint of red dusted his cheeks.

“Uh, sorry about. This,” he gestured to his chest, turning away slightly to reveal less of his profile. “Could you get me my shirt?”

“Oh, I don’t mind ‘this’,” Tundra waved away his concern, walking up to him. He blinked, sent a furtive look at the discarded apparel past him, then clicked his tongue. “Uh. Okay. Did you wanna say something? I hope you’re not still angry.”

“Angry? Of what?”

Torch shifted. “Of the… y’know.”

Tundra was almost certain that he did, but he stayed silent.

Torch grimaced when he didn’t reply, gaze sliding to Tundra then away just as quickly. “I’m not being tested, am I? I really am sorry about that.” The insecurity tugged at his heartstrings, which was a fact to file away for later.

“You truly needn’t be, Torch,” He assured, in what he hoped was a soft voice that _didn’t_ let on how he felt about the matter. “Why would you think to be sorry?”

Torch was growing more uncomfortable, and he came here to make him _less_ uncomfortable, so he was well and truly failing—but his damned curiosity and hope weren’t letting this pass.

“…What’s Cossack’s stance on— _homosexuality_?” Torch hazarded, stumbling awkwardly over the word.

Oh.

Was this-

“Indifferent. Whyever would you ask?”

Torch’s entire form slumped, muscles finally relaxing. Their gazes met, and there was a moment where he could read the euphoric relief in his eyes before he straightened up posthaste. “Oh. No reason.”

Tundra stopped the smile from spreading across his face. “Of course.”

He really needed to stop indulging in wine on these types of days. It never… it never _helped._

And he always woke up with a headache, and he couldn’t tell if that was from the crying or the alcohol or _what._ But the thing was, it _did_ help. He only let himself cry when he was drunk. He could blame it on the wine, then. And he could convince himself that he’d gotten over it the day after.

But ‘till tomorrow came, he’d be dead-set on apologising.

Pathetic.

Bass did not _grovel._ He did not _beg for forgiveness._ No, but that was perfectly in character with his inebriated alter ego.

His quill slid sloppily over the parchment, ink blotchy and letters largely illegible. But it was the thought that counted.

It was the thought that counted.

_Shit._

He loved Rock. There was no pretending, after this, was there? That he just wanted his body, or a trophy, or a- fuck, he could barely even believe he ever thought they could just be _friends._

He needed to tell him.

His wrist made a motion of flicks, the words—reminiscent of a tangled string—appeared on the letter, and he stuffed it all into an envelope. All he could hope for was that his _sober_ self would deem this all a terrible idea and discard it.

The next morning, the letter was on its way to Abel.

There was an envelope on his bureau.

He could’ve tried to convince himself that it wasn’t from Bass. He could’ve opened it, and seen who it was, then read it in its entirety nonetheless—to satisfy his curiosity. And then he’d spend the rest of the day trying to forget the rendezvous point, and summarily fail.

And the next day, he’d set off.

But he needed to get over himself. Bass didn’t love him back. Maybe there was a time, a month or more ago—but not anymore. He’d been corrupted; and now all he wanted was a toy.

And Rock refused to play the part.

He grabbed it off the desk, hands in position to tear it clean in half.

He couldn’t.

He increased the pressure, watching as the crinkles grew more pronounced, watching as the hints of a tear formed.

He couldn’t.

Rock strode over to the fireplace, where the ash of the last letter lay beneath the logs. He tried to throw it in. He tried to. Instead, his arm flicked to the side, sending it fluttering to the ground a metre away in a decidedly unsatisfying motion. He crushed it beneath his boot, and the sound of crumpling parchment helped slightly.

Rock picked up the crumpled envelope, glancing at the fireplace again.

He glanced away.

He placed his other hand on it, grip tightening fiercely.

He loosened it.

_Why couldn’t he-_

He muffled a cry of frustration, stomping to his desk and throwing open a seldom-used drawer. Stuffing it in, he reared back to kick the drawer closed but refrained at the last moment.

“Stupid.” He muttered. “Stupid Bass. Stupid me. Stupid, idiotic, _moronic.”_ Rock ran to his bed, leaping onto it and landing face-first with a huff. Grabbing a pillow, he buried his head into it as he finally let out an unbridled yell.

And once he’d let out his fury, the tears began. He hadn’t dared thinking about that day since he’d returned. And now all the hurt, and rage, and misery came rushing back.

“Why?” He choked. “You idiot!”

But he wasn’t sure whether the idiot was Bass or himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh oh :O


	22. Chapter 22

Tundra awoke with vague, fleeting whispers of a hot and muscled body pressed against him, and Torch’s voice in his ear. He was painfully hard, and the body of his fantasy beside him _did not help. “Blyad’,”_ he groaned, and the warmth beside him shifted.

“Tundra?” It murmured, voice rough. “What’s wrong?”

He suppressed a shiver, member twitching under his pants unhelpfully. “Nothing at all, Torch,” he ground out. The man turned to face him, but he dared not make eye contact. “Tundra?”

“…Yes?”

“Tundra, look at me.” His voice was low and authoritative, but underlain by concern. Tundra hesitated, but complied reluctantly. Torch hovered over him, supported by hands caging him in—which did nothing at all to banish his arousal, far too close to Torch’s thighs pressing against his to be comfortable.

Or rather, it was _too_ comfortable, and such was the crux of the problem.

“What’s wrong?” Torch asked, voice soft and caring and unfair, this early in the morning. “Nothing,” he replied, voice vaguely strangled.

“Tundra.” Torch chided.

He paused. “Truly.”

“I can _tell_ something’s annoying you,” he protested. A thought crossed his mind, and he moved away the little distance he could without falling off the bed. “Unless it’s _me?”_ And then, “Tundra, I really don’t mind sleeping on the floor, I swear! Hold on, I’ll just-“

“No,” he pleaded, grabbing Torch’s bicep hastily. “It isn’t you. I’m annoyed with _myself.”_ He could imagine Torch’s bemused blink. “Are you sure?”

“Positive, Torch.” And, to reinforce his point: “please.” There was another second, in which his hand stayed firmly on his bicep, but Torch acquiesced eventually. “Okay. Yeah.” The warm body settled back beside him, and Tundra relaxed.

“Thank you.”

Slowly, he shut his eyes once more.

…This was beginning to become a problem.

In his already tired state, he had not expected Roll to meet him in the library with her expression ablaze. _“Rock.”_ She thundered, in a voice that usually lilted deceivingly softly. “This isn’t in character, for you.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“No,” she glowered. “You’re responsible. Trustworthy. Independent. So tell me, _prince of Abel,_ why I found a _love letter_ in your drawer.”

Oh no.

He _really_ could’ve done without this.

…Wait.

 _“Love letter?”_ He choked. “Whatever was inside it?”

“Don’t play coy with me, Rock. It was so chock full of declarations of love and apologies—those legible, at the very least—that I was tempted to send it to our famous playwrights as a _muse.”_ He couldn’t quite process what he was hearing. That letter was undeniably from _Bass_.

“I-“ He began.

“No. No excuses, nor explanations. You end this _now._ Whoever sent it? Apologise, then never contact them again. You. Are. A. _Prince,_ Rock. _Act like it.”_ She boomed, stomping closer with each emphasised word. “You can’t afford to have an affair. There will be a time, place, and manner to marry—and now, through letters, and _clandestine_ are _none_ of them.”

He was too far gone. Despite the ranting and raving of his sister an arm’s length from him, his mind tumbled through the letter’s implications. “May I have it?” He asked, then mentally smacked himself.

 _“No!”_ She yelled, “You may _not.”_

“Ah.”

He bore the rest of her scolding with the appropriately timed meek agreements and nods, but his attention lay solely upon the draft of his response.

Goodness.

…Bass loved him.

Torch wasn’t staring.

He _wasn’t._

But Tundra was naturally captivating. It wasn’t his fault; there probably wasn’t a gay man on earth who wouldn’t stare at Tundra’s lips.

Not-stare.

So that meant he was in the clear. And therefore allowed to.

Damnit, his lips weren’t even doing anything special! He was just drinking tea, making soft noises of appreciation, tongue darting out to lick his lips absently.

He probably looked like an idiot, eyes glued to Tundra, his own cup of tea cooling rapidly in the frosty air. He’d tried looking away, or focussing on his own drink, or starting a conversation. No luck. Tundra seemed perfectly content to sit in silence with his tea, sipping every so often from his cup with lidded eyes.

Shit.

“Torch? Are my lips truly that interesting?”

He startled, an incriminating blush spreading over his cheeks. “No!”

Tundra cocked a brow. “Not even the tiniest bit?” He teased.

“Yes, I mean- no, well, yes, but-“ He stuttered, stopped, then made up an excuse that simply couldn’t hold its own weight and fled.

“Torch?” Tundra called out, voice betraying his perplexment.

He didn’t meet anyone else’s gaze as he ran to the training area.

‘Dearest Bass.

I shan’t bore you with formalities.

I must admit I did not get the opportunity to read your letter—a situation you’ll force me to explain later, no doubt—but from the vague idea I was told, it would seem you have a higher opinion of me than I was convinced of by our previous meetings.

Do not mistake my words for forgiveness.

You burn me with your passion, and I have no wish for our next meeting to leave me scarred. I am giving you a ‘third chance’, despite what I had previously assured you—because I am pathetic, it would seem.

Do not make me give you a fourth.

With each new chance, my opinion of you lowers. Currently, it hovers at “possibly a maniac, definitely cruel”, and yet I can’t help but know that I love you despite it.

I hope you’re happy.

I wonder if I am. Because in spite of it all, I know that you make _me_ happy.

Meet me behind the tavern on Friday afternoon.

Do _not_ push me against a wall.

Sincerely yours, Rock.’

Tundra watched Torch leave with a mix of concern and pensive contemplation written across his face.

Well, that was quite the confirmation. There would never be as suspicious a denial as he’d just witnessed; Torch had a crush on him.

He wished he could adopt his signature smile, laugh a soft laugh, and tell himself he was flattered. But the truth was that the attraction was requited, and ‘flattered’ wasn’t the right word. At least earlier, he could pretend that he didn’t notice it, or interpreted it as something else, but now he had no excuse to keep his affection a secret.

Well, he did: sheer stubbornness. But he liked to think that he operated under _some_ semblance of logic.

He couldn’t confess, however much he wanted. The war for independence was currently raging, and until it was over, any unnecessary affection could only lead to heartbreak. Maybe by then, if there was still any attraction, he’d act on it.

Yes. A splendid plan.

…Oh goodness, he could _hear_ his heart protesting.

No, perhaps not until the end of a war without a clear end. Earlier. In a year.

Ouch.

A few months.

Too vague.

A week?

…That was the best compromise, surely. Not too long, nor too short. He’d wait until a week passed, and if Torch still harboured a crush, he’d act on it. And if he didn’t: he’d have saved himself a lot of unnecessary heartbreak.

It was win-win.

It _was._

For the first time since their meetings started, Bass wasn’t at the rendezvous when Rock arrived.

That was alright. He could wait. He was willing to wait. In Bass’s defence, ‘afternoon’ had a very large margin of error, stretching into half the day if one broadened the definition enough. So he’d wait.

And not contemplate worst-case scenarios.

Like if Bass hadn’t received the letter in time, or if Roll had intercepted it, and it had never left the capital in the first place. And if she was waiting for him, back at the palace, waiting for his return so she could lay down proper _restrictions_ this time.

He shuddered.

…He’d started the letter with Bass’s name. If Roll had intercepted the letter, she would’ve known full well, now, who he was meeting with. Oh no. What if she’d captured Bass? What then? Would she kill him, or imprison him? Would they ever see each other again?

The day was young, but still his mind fell further into anxiety with each passing minute. He needed to calm down.

Would ordering alcohol help?

No, a stubborn voice in the back of his mind—still clinging to sensibility—told him. No, it would not.

The nervous energy grew, and grew, and multiplied, until his leg jittered under the table and his fingers drummed on it and he received some very annoyed glances indeed. Finally, he pushed himself up and marched to the door. He needed to visit the clocktower.

The beginning of summer crept into the air, and so what hit him first as he stepped outside was how low in the sky the sun was. Shadows cast by the half-timbered rowhouses stretched across the road, offering no sunshine to the street below.

He hurried to the town square.

He wasn’t sure if it was his panicking mind or if his senses were truly correct, but it felt as if there was an air of gloom around the town. It made no sense; no one would mourn a general’s secretive capture, especially given the _secretive_ aspect.

It must’ve been his mind.

As he arrived at the plaza, his fears worsened. The hour hand crept past six.

Either Bass wasn’t coming, or he _had._

Rock stumbled backwards, eyes locked on the clockface even as he tripped and fell. The impact startled him out of his daze, and he rose gingerly. He sprinted back to the tavern, pace too fast to rationalise. Something had gone very, very wrong.

He barely stopped himself from calling Bass’s name.

Rock slowed as the tavern entered his view, taking a moment to catch his breath. Lightly perspiring was one thing, but frantic _and_ lightly perspiring was another. If anyone was going to tell him anything, he needed to put up a respectable front.

As his breathing evened, he stepped inside.

Stay calm. _For Bass._

He forced himself to walk over to the bar at a calm pace. The man behind it gave him a grin that did little to ease his mind. “Oi. Something I can getcha?”

“That depends,” he replied smoothly. “I’d like one or two questions answered.”

He raised his brow, smile stubbornly staying put. “Go on a’ead, then.”

“Did a cloaked man with his hood up ever enter the tavern today?”

The man snorted. “Aye. Plenty. You’re gonna need to be a bit more specific, mate.”

Rock pursed his lips, but nodded. “Alright, then. Has there been a commotion outside at any point in the afternoon?”

“’Commotion’? Ya mean a fight?”

“I suppose so.”

“Nah, not really. As I said, you need something less vague or I’ll never know watcha on about.”

Alright, Bass’s life was at stake. Never mind anonymity if the anonymised individual die. “Has Bass, general of the Masterium army, been spotted nearby at any point recently, or perhaps within the last handful of days?”

The bartender burst out laughing. “Right, yeah! Think I saw ‘im up your arse! Nah I ain’t, ya fuckin’ eejit. A battle’s been raging a short bit south of this town the whole bloody day, it has!”

Rock’s eyes blew open. “What? Can you tell me any more?”

But the man was too busy cackling to hear him, so he ran out the door.

Battle always made him feel better.

Whether he was stressed, or angry, or lonely, or miserable; the life-or-death nature always helped him focus. There was no time for any petty emotions when his sword ran through others and his shield blocked others’ swords. It was a hit of adrenaline, a surge of the power he craved.

And now, it was a distraction. From Rock. From his weakness. From his mistakes. It was dulling the pain, at the very least.

Jinx.

The second the thought crossed his mind, burning agony exploded in his gut.

He snapped out of his trance, eyes focussing on the face before him. It was unfamiliar, but twisted with rage, and pain, and terror. And then the agony in his gut doubled as the sword slid out. Bass staggered backwards, refusing to topple, stubbornly clutching his blade still. But then his heel caught on a corpse, and the world became the sky and his back hit the ground.

He groaned, fingers twitching for the sword that’d slipped from his grip, expecting the killing blow but fighting death to the very last moment.

He didn’t close his eyes.

He wasn’t a coward.

…But it didn’t come.

Glancing around, his assailant was already gone from view. He was alone in his little corner of the battlefield, bleeding out, and no one noticed.

He was going to die.

He was going to die a long, painful death, and no one would even _notice._

“Help!” He shouted, then winced, and gasped, and all-around regretted it. “ _Fuck_.”

No one heard.

He tried again, yelling out to any who could hear—but the roar of battle overpowered his meagre cries, and his men were too far away.

He’d always believed a death on the battlefield was his destiny. He never thought it’d be this honourless.

No.

 _No!_ He wasn’t dead yet. He needed to- he needed to find shelter, before someone less merciful realised he wasn’t dead, and/or recognised him.

It was a slow, painful journey as he crawled through the muddied and bloodied grass, over the armour-clad corpses and dropped swords. The edge of the battlefield: the surrounding forest, in sight, so close, yet so fucking far away.

He’d be safe in there, he told himself. Maybe not from wild animals, or the cold, or his looming death—but from the enemy. Maybe that was enough.

When he finally reached the forest, he propped himself up against a tree, and waited.

He didn’t know what he was waiting for. Death, certainly, but he’d come here to _escape_ it.

Maybe he’d just wanted space to think. _Time_ to think.

He wished he hadn’t.

Because now, his mind refused to stop. To stop reminiscing, and wondering, and fantasising, all tinged in a shade of hopelessness and finality.

He hadn’t even professed his love yet. He’d die, and Rock would _never even know._

He tried to stop the memories—but they played out before him nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fellas! Y'know the once-a-ten-day-period update schedule I've more or less been adhering to these past few months? Y'see the confident total chapter count, and the fact that even though I'm half a chapter from finishing this y'all'd have to wait another month and a half before the final chapter'd drop?
> 
> ...Y'know how I'm a benevolent god?
> 
> I'ma release a new chapter daily until the fic is done, from hereon out. Till then, bitches! <3


	23. Chapter 23

“What the fuck did I say, _shithead_?” The bedazzled bitch probably came here expecting diplomacy, and gifts, and complete and utter _bullshit_. Bass refused to indulge him.

The prince twitched, lips thinning as he seemed to endure a civil war ripping through his mind.

And then he spoke.

“You said to stay out of your way. You said not to get in your way. I am in no way disobeying. I am not impeding upon any conversation, nor am I restricting your access to your whims. I have followed your instructions perfectly, _sir_. Do not attempt to discipline me on something _I didn’t do.”_

His voice rose from a deathly calm murmur to a barely restrained shout.

Wily watched them with a disinterested gaze. That fucking _hag_.

He breathed in.

And let it out.

Calm. He was calm. And calm generals did not make rash decisions, like throwing a prince that deserved it a punch in the face. “Listen here—what’s your name, _prince_?” That was the most respectful he was gonna get.

There was a moment of inner debate, and then he replied. “…What’s _yours_?”

Fire burst through his veins.

_“YOU FUCKING DISGRACE-“_

Wily grabbed his wrist, stopping the clenched fist from making it any further to its destination.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He could do this. It was a test, and like hell he was gonna do any bit less than exemplary.

“…Bass,” he ground out.

The idiot, who’s singular brain cell couldn’t cope with his utter kindness, blinked. “…Bass?”

He stopped the reflexive insult just in time. “…that’s my name.”

“Oh,” the bitch mouthed, lips opening and closing in a way that reminded him distinctly of a fish out of water. “…Bass.”

There was a long pause. There. Mission successful. 100%, A++, congratulations to him-

“…Mine’s Rock.” The prince murmured.

Rock.

It sounded nice. Cool. Succinct, if he was more poetic.

“…Rock.”

That was the first time Bass had ever felt anything but contempt for him. It wasn’t the last.

Rock stood in the war room, eyes combing over operation _Ourea_ in increasing terror.

 _Good_.

He unsheathed his knife, mind hazy with hatred as he stepped closer silently. Rock didn’t even look up, that arrogant, self-important _piece of shit._

But he didn’t sink the blade into his throat just yet. He wanted to see the fear, the regret, hear the apologies stream from his mouth. He wanted to make him _hurt_. Instead, the knife’s edge simply rested there as he leaned in to growl the words into his ear.

“You weren’t supposed to read that.”

He felt Rock’s body freeze against his, muscles tensing and breath hitching and voice whimpering wonderfully. “I… please, let’s not be hasty-“

 _“LET’S NOT BE HASTY!?”_ He roared. Rock flinched, as he should’ve, twisting his neck away.

No. No escape.

He fisted his fingers in his hair, pulling him back, closer, and increasing the pressure against his throat ever so slightly. He watched Rock watch him, fascinated for a moment. His breath smelt like mint and tea, because _of course it did._

 _“Fuck. That_. Give me one reason I shouldn’t slit your throat. Right here, right now. It’d make it easier for me, with a complication out of the way and no more obstacles to invasion. Go on, _try_.”

Rock’s lips thinned, eyes narrowing as if _he_ was the one with the upper hand and _Bass_ had it all wrong.

“Tundra.”

What?

And then he voiced his question aloud, an expression of startled confusion until his arm was twisted and it quickly morphed into one of pain. Rock, for however much of an idiot he was, did not hesitate to dive for the knife and point it at him as he stood unsteadily.

His grip was off.

He nearly burst into laughter. For a second, he’d almost felt threatened. “You don’t even fucking know how to use it. You’re holding it wrong,” he snorted.

“Tundra,” he repeated as if it was some ground-breaking discovery. And then: “He’s living proof that you’re not as bad as you make yourself out to be.”

He blinked.

_What?_

“I… _what!?_ You’re pointing a knife I just threatened your life with at me— _as you tell me I’m not a bad person!?”_

Rock spoke as if Bass hadn’t replied at all. “So, then: why do you act like one? Why do you threaten, why do you kill? Why do you force your soldiers to massacre indiscriminately?”

…Fuck. Him. What was his point!? Did he think Bass was a good person or not? Pick and _stay consistent,_ for fuck’s sake!

“Bass?” He pressed. “I’m confused. You treat some like humans, but others like problems. Do you realise not that each is as real as the next?”

That fucking _prince_. High and mighty, on the highest horse money could buy earned from interest on gold earned by amoral countries. Who did he think he was?

Rock sighed, raised the dagger, and Bass prepared himself to spring away.

And then Rock crouched down, and slammed it through _Ourea_ resignedly.

And then he held out his hand.

_For Bass to grasp._

_Who was he?_

There was a moment they spent where his wide eyes gazed into Rock’s, dumbstruck and awed and wondering what the heat in his gut was.

Anger. That’s what it was.

He tackled Rock into the floor, pinning him there as he straddled his abdomen and drew back a fist. The other held the prince’s wrists above his head, stopping any retaliation before it could start. _“SHUT UP! Shut the FUCK up! You think you’re some kind of saint, huh!?”_

Rock winced, watching his fist in fear. “No, I- Bass, wait-“

The heat blossomed, but this time it wasn’t nice, or comforting—this time, it hurt.

Rock made him hurt.

So he hurt him back.

Bass stared, and watched Rock’s eyes slowly meet his.

_Fuck._

He reared his fist again, more in panic than anger now.

_What was that, just now?_

He imagined Rock’s face snapping to the side again, blood flowing freely from cuts in his cheek, and the thought physically repulsed him.

So much so that he shoved Rock back.

He stood up, legs weak.

Rock glared at him, but he could muster little more than a horrified stare.

And Rock’s gaze melted into confusion.

He took a step back.

The prince edged forward, almost imperceptibly.

He ran.

And looking back on it now, with a mind of pre-mortem clarity, he could tell that that was the first time he’d felt it.

The first weak, wispy tendrils of… _love_.

There were so many things he wanted to tell Rock.

That he was sorry.

That he missed him.

That he loved him.

“Rock…” he whispered into the cloying air, silent now that both sides had retreated. He could almost hear it: Rock’s soft reply, a calm and reassuring murmur of his name.

A beautiful noise to die to.

“…Bass…”

It sounded far away, echoing through his mind.

And then he heard it again.

“…Bass…!”

And he realised that it wasn’t his imagination.

Rock tripped on corpses as he made his way onto the battlefield.

He refused to look down.

He refused to see their faces.

Because as he stared around the barren hellscape, the smell, sound, sight, feel and taste of _death_ overwhelmed his every sense. Dead trees on dead grass covered in dead people trampled by dead horses.

And he refused to look down.

Because he was scared he’d see Bass looking back.

 _“Bass!”_ He cried out, voice shattering as he tried to project it as far as he could.

It was hopeless.

_“BASS!”_

His horse neighed in response—it was crisp and clear through the silence.

He couldn’t stop. He repeated his name again and again until his voice grew hoarse, and he pushed it past its breaking point even then. He was falling apart; the invisible cracks of terror widened, forming chasms through him and carving his body into ragged chunks. And then further, into shards. He collapsed onto the ground, eyes squeezed shut and tears spilling over, breaths heaving in and out in quick and faltering gasps.

He nearly missed the quiet cry of his name.

He nearly didn’t recognise the voice.

His head shot up, heart splitting with agonising hope. He pushed his deteriorating larynx into screaming one last desperate call.

_“Bass?”_

“…Rock…!”

He sobbed a cry of relief, stumbling to his feet and following the voice’s source. It was coming from the forest.

When he found Bass, he was crawling towards him, one hand clutching his abdomen and the other dragging himself through the mud.

The trail of blood was distinctive.

“Oh no,” he said—or tried to, because what actually came out was a harsh croak.

Bass was going to bleed out.

…He needed to get him to a hospital, now.

He gestured vaguely at his horse, a hundred-metre sprint away, hoping to convey his message, then turned towards it and ran.

“Wait!” Bass called out, “I…”

Rock’s heart cracked open.

He pulled a U-turn, bolting back to Bass’s collapsed form with fiery determination in his eyes.

He crouched down, cupped Bass’s bemused face in both hands, then surged forward and pressed a harsh kiss against his lips.

It was a plea, for patience, and strength, and understanding, and he poured every ounce of reassurance he could into their lips’ contact.

He leaned forward to whisper into his ear.

“I’ll be back.”

And Rock kept his promise, only sprinting away to bring his horse to Bass—but his mind lingered on the kiss even as he was helped onto the saddle.

It was the first time Rock had initiated one.

“I… Rock, I-“ He coughed.

The prince shushed him gently, turning back to steer the horse onto a path that led to the city. Bass held his arms around Rock’s waist, an assurance to himself as much as it was to the recipient. He was probably bloodying his shirt.

Fuck.

He needed to say it.

“Rock…”

But his consciousness was slipping away too quickly.

And it all turned dark too soon.


	24. Chapter 24

“No. Really? No shit? _Ten?”_ Torch grinned semi-disbelievingly. He knew Tundra was something else, but _holy shit. “Da._ In their defence, none of them were professionally trained, nor were any as well-equipped as I’d been.” Tundra was smiling back, legs crossed and fingers interlocked delicately over his knee.

He looked so… _approachable._

It was a rare sight, and he was determined to savour it. “Why did they even attack you in the first place?”

“Their leader was making deals with Masterium intelligence, and Cossack caught on. Suffice it to say that he has been on a smoke break for multiple years, now. I do not believe he’s coming back.”

“Did you get caught during or after the escape?” He badgered, sliding closer to Tundra on the bench. Their shoulders brushed. “Where do these alleged ten, revengeful thugs come into play?”

Tundra froze, glancing down at the contact. Shuffling to the side, he put a more platonic distance between them.

Oh.

Not homophobic, but definitely not gay, either. Right.

“During.” He forced out. “I had different priorities, back then. Stealth was lower than it is today.”

Torch nodded. “Yeah.”

Tundra had been doing this a lot, recently. They’d be talking, completely innocently, and then. Suddenly Tundra would realise, and then: stop. It was as if he shut down. Like there was a lever, and each pull or push turned his casual side on and off. It was frustrating, and difficult, but most of all it _hurt._ Because each time, it was a tease of what they could be.

Of what was impossible.

When Bass woke up, he wasn’t in a tent.

Red flag one.

His weapons were nowhere to be seen.

Red flag two.

And he could hear Rock’s voice beside his bed.

…Admittedly, that was more of a white flag.

“He’s a _good person._ I don’t know why I have to keep stressing this, after all the examples I just gave you!”

A feminine voice replied back, clearly unimpressed. “You call it kindness, but I see it for what it really is, Rock. Manipulation. He’s killed more people in his lifetime than our entire nation has in its _entire existence._ Do you see how this might be a cause for doubt? It clearly isn’t love!”

He wasn’t fully in a state to comprehend what was going on, but someone was arguing with Rock. About him. Which was dumb, since Rock was probably right, anyway.

“You say that, and yet all of your experience with him is _second-hand!_ I have no doubt in my heart that he can be convinced to do the right thing, Roll. Because he is—repeat after me— _foundationally_ good.”

Bass couldn’t handle this. If Rock was going to be all lovey-dovey, he was going to do it like a _man_ and say it to his face. And graciously accept his gratitude, too.

He groaned, pushing himself up. The pain in his abdomen flared, and he collapsed with the belated realisation that _oh yeah, he should’ve been dead._

“Damn,” Rock hissed, and then he was at his side in an instant. “Are you alright? Thank all that’s holy—the doctor said you’d live, but that’s hard to believe when you refuse to wake up for _so long.”_ His voice still sounded slightly strained.

“…How long?”

“Long enough,” Rock murmured, and Bass didn’t care if it was a month or an hour because it was _too_ long.

Bass grunted, trying to at least rest on his elbows. “I- I’ve gotta-“

 _“Rest_ , believe it or not,” Rock reprimanded, brow stern. And then it smoothened, and he leant forward, and he placed a quick peck on Bass’s cheek. “Please?”

“Fuck,” was his reply, because _fuck._

“’Foundationally good’, is that it?” Roll cut in. The world re-expanded to include everyone else. “I guess it’s about time we put that to the test, huh?”

Rock grimaced. “He woke up _a minute ago,_ Roll. I highly disagree.” Quelling any arguments with a raised hand, he continued. “Tomorrow. But today, he shall recover.”

Roll looked like she’d taken a sip of water and quickly realised it was piss instead. “You may be his ‘lover’, Rock, but everyone else is seeing him from my perspective: an enemy.”

“I know,” Rock allowed, taking on a gentle cadence. “But tomorrow, you shall find him an ally, I’m sure.”

Roll began to speak, then stopped, then left with a bitter “fine.” It was probably the best they were getting.

“Rock.”

“Rest well, Bass.” He turned to follow his sister.

“Rock, wait! I-“

He smiled. “I know.”

And he left the room.

Torch awoke when Tundra muttered something into his pillow.

He didn’t sound particularly thrilled about it, whatever it was.

“Tundra?” He murmured into the back of the man’s neck. “Wh’s wrong?”

He froze, muscles tensing under his lips. “Nothing,” he choked out. “Nothing for you to worry about. Go back to sleep, Torch.”

Hm.

Bullshit.

Dispelling the whispered thoughts of idiocy and semi-conscious mistakes, he turned fully to face Tundra’s back and wrapped his arms around him. He tucked his knees behind Tundra’s, then placed his chin over the man’s jet black hairstyle that smelled vaguely of lemons.

Again, Tundra locked up.

“You’re dumb.” Torch murmured. “you’d prob’bly be a lot happier if y’just _told me_ wh’s wrong instead of…” He searched for the words for a second, then shrugged against Tundra’s shoulders. “…That.”

There was no reply, but the body he spooned loosened up incrementally as the silence dragged on.

He’d nearly fallen back asleep when Tundra finally whispered a response.

“You’re right. Of course you are.”

Torch’s eyes opened lethargically. Watching the opposite wall silently, he waited for Tundra to elaborate.

“Do you still harbour that crush on me?”

 _That_ woke him up.

Before Torch could recover, Tundra spoke again. “It’s alright if you don’t. You needn’t say anything. It’s simply gotten progressively harder, as these last five days have passed, for me to stay silent. I want to say it.”

“Tun-“

“I like you.”

Torch shut up very quickly.

“I’m not sure for how long. I’m not even quite sure how _much_ I do. But that doesn’t change the facts.” He chuckled. “I promised myself that I’d wait a week. A week, I told myself, would be far more bearable than a month of heartbreak. Don’t let it get to your head that I couldn’t hold out that long.” He paused. “But it’s been five days of constantly slipping restraint and catching myself—and even though the whole _point_ to waiting would be to see if you’d give up, the thought grew more terrifying with each day that passed. Because- I like you, Torch.”

Tundra sounded like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t.

The first thing that escaped Torch’s mouth was: “I thought you were straight!”

He hadn’t noticed Tundra had tensed up until his muscles softened and he let out a beautiful laugh that Torch wanted to memorise. _“Lyubimyy,_ do I _look_ straight to you?”

And he tried to come up with a retort, he really did, but Tundra’s warm cadence had put a stop to his every thought.

_“’Lyubimyy’?”_

Tundra paused, then huffed. “Beloved.”

 _“Fuck,”_ he choked, and his heart combusted. He pushed himself up, sitting over Tundra with his eyes wide in wonder. Tundra watched him watch him carefully but hopefully, and even in the dark Torch could tell he was beautiful.

So he dove in and pushed a kiss against his lips that he hoped conveyed all he couldn’t say.

The press of their mouths was hard—it’d be uncomfortable if they weren’t both so desperate—and it felt like a claim, a promise, and a plea.

He was holding his breath.

When they parted, Torch forced himself to breathe. He panted roughly, and stared without shame as he cupped the face below him. Tundra stared back, and the aloof composure was gone; not even echoes remained.

This Tundra was raw.

“I like you too,” he breathed, and pushed forward again.

The kisses stayed chaste despite their fervour. They’d have time to properly fulfil each other later, but tonight was a night to simply bask in it all. Neither said a word in the few, fleeting moments they came up for air. They didn’t need to. Tundra’s hands were on his back as he pushed himself to more completely cage him in, protect him. Torch’s hands were cradling his cheek and neck. Without the involvement of anyone else, anything else—just the two of them, by themselves, and it was perfect.

Because Tundra liked him back.

They fell asleep in each other’s arms.

The next day, Rock was in the hospital before Bass had awoken.

Which was good, because it gave him time to try and think of a way to phrase the news—in a way that made it seem like he had a choice.

He believed in Bass.

He’d know which to make.

“If you think any harder your head might just burst,” came the voice on the bed. Rock barked a short, nervous laugh. Bass frowned. “What’s up?”

“Do you feel well?” He asked, in lieu of a reply.

Bass rolled his eyes. “Peachy. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“That’s great news!” He stalled. “A miraculous recovery, if the doctors are to be believed. I-“

“Just _tell me,_ Rock.”

He sighed. “…I want you to defect. But don’t fret! It’s simply—I’d like that. It’s your choice, in the end.”

Bass huffed. “Bullshit.”

“…Sorry?” Rock blinked.

“You’re giving me a half-truth, aren’t you?” And then, reading his expression, he continued. “You are. You’re trying to make this easier on me. But I’m smart enough to figure this out, even if I’m an absolute idiot.”

“I…” He tried.

Bass smiled self-deprecatingly. It was such an alien expression Rock nearly tried to blink it away.

“Thank you. I don’t deserve it. But let’s see here—Roll, the Abelan general, wouldn’t step foot on Masterium soil unless a knife was pressed against her back. I’m in Abelan territory.”

Rock could only nod dumbly.

“Thought so. And, considering Roll wasn’t exactly _enthusiastic_ to call me any kind of good yesterday, she didn’t come out of sympathy.” Bass’s lips were set in a grim line. “So it isn’t _you_ that wants me to defect, is it?”

“That… I, well, I _do,”_ Rock tried, and Bass snorted.

“Yeah. But it’s Roll that’s adding the ‘or die’ part in there, isn’t it?”

He winced. “Bass…”

“I’ll do it. On one condition.”

Rock startled, then nodded eagerly. “Anything.”

Bass sent him a guarded look, then broke eye contact as he began. “Stay with me.”

“I-“

“Let me finish,” he pleaded. “Stay with me. Even when I’m an asshole. Even when I’m a fucking _idiot._ Don’t leave my side, ever. I know it’s selfish, but please, Rock.” He was speechless, so Bass filled the silence. “I’ve tried living without you, these past weeks. They were hell. I _need_ you, even if you don’t need me, and—and don’t tell Roll, but I’d be willing to do _anything_ if it means you stay with me.”

“Bass,” he whispered.

The general hunched over, then quickly straightened and locked gaze with him. His eyes burned.

“But I’ll stop at nothing less than you, Rock. It’s you, forever—or nothing at all. So I’m letting you decide. What’s more important: my life, or yours?”

 _That_ _hurt._

“Bass-“ Rock choked on a sob. The general looked afflicted, for a moment, and halfway to saying something else when Rock threw his arms around his shoulders and _squeezed._ Bass tensed into the hug, then hesitantly placed his palms on Rock’s back. “Damn you, Bass,” he whimpered, and he only realised he was crying when a tear rolled down his cheek. “Why can’t it be both?”

“…Rock?” His voice was unsteady.

“I love you, Bass. _Of course_ I’ll stay with you!”

“…Forever?”

Rock couldn’t tell if he was crying joyful tears. It was all simply _so much,_ and _far_ too much to parse in this moment, or the next, but at least there was one thing he knew.

He nodded. “Forever, Bass. _I love you.”_

When Bass pulled back for a moment, his eyes were wet. “I- Fuck, Rock. Me too.”

Their faces were close; noses a hair’s breadth apart. Bass moved forward, one hand moving up to rest on the back of Rock’s neck. His mouth neared, but stopped before their lips met. There he hovered as they breathed each other’s air—it was making Rock dizzy. He tightened his grip on Bass’s back, but Bass didn’t move forward yet. His eye contact was searing. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes!” Rock gasped, and Bass surged forwards. The press of their lips was desperate, and Rock keened against it. The hard pressure filled him with a relief so stark he could cry; it felt like confirmation. The words had signed this treaty, and the kiss had ratified it.

No. The treaties and agreements and ceasefires could wait. For now, it was just him, and Bass, and months of built-up desperation all flowing out at once.

Bass’s hand on his neck pulled him forwards, on top of the bed and on top of Bass. Rock adjusted their position, settling his knees on either side of Bass’s and placing his hands on his pecs for support. Bass growled approvingly, a noise that went straight to his groin.

“Bass,” he breathed as they separated.

“C’mere,” he purred in reply.

Rock obliged, scooting further up Bass’s legs to rest on his thighs, diving back into another kiss. A tongue swiped across his lips, and he gasped. “What are you…?”

Bass looked impatient, but underneath it he almost seemed _shy._ “C’mon, just- please?” He rumbled.

Rock smiled, and this time it was more than just lust that drove him to acquiesce. “Alright.”

Bass pulled him back into a kiss, more confident, less restrained. His tongue immediately pushed against Rock’s lips, and it met no resistance. The sensation was like nothing he’d ever felt before. It was wet and sloppy in a tantalising manner that he couldn’t describe short of _dripping ecstasy._ Their tongues swirled together, and Rock sucked experimentally on the invading appendage. Bass growled a rumbling noise that Rock realised he could _taste,_ now.

It made him moan.

Bass’s hands roamed down his back, making a quick stop to grope his butt (he whined into the kiss) before they landed on his thighs. He pulled him further up his body, until Rock was sat on what was undeniably Bass’s hard member. He could feel the searing length pressing against his rear, branding him. Rock shifted experimentally—and Bass groaned into the kiss.

He pulled back, panting hard and lips glossy. A string of spit stretched then collapsed, and he took a moment to recollect himself.

“Bass, are we…” His voice was breathy and embarrassingly high-pitched.

“Do you want it, babe?”

Oh _goodness,_ Bass did _not_ have to tack on that endearment.

Rock melted pathetically. “Yes,” he whimpered.

But before anything could progress further, he readjusted his supporting hands, and decided that _yes, placing them on Bass’s stomach was a good idea._ Bass hissed, barking a strong expletive. Rock’s gaze shot down, and his palms hovered over the bandages they had been placed on a second earlier.

“Oh- _God, Bass!_ Are you alright? I-I’m so sorry, goodness!”

Bass took a moment to reply, fingers brushing against the bandages experimentally. His jaw was tense and he scowled at the wound as if all his problems sprouted from it. “I’m fine,” he ground out. “We’ll just have to make sure to be careful.”

Rock blinked, then a grin wider than was strictly appropriate broke out across his face. “You… you want to continue?”

“You don’t?” He grumbled.

Rock laughed then, leaning in to bury his nose in the crook of his neck. “Goodness, Bass. Never have I met a man more enamoured with sex.” He spluttered, but the way Rock nuzzled against him calmed him down. “Fuck off. You want it too.”

“However that may be, I’d rather wait until you’re recovered.”

He muttered something, but backed off obligingly.

“…Bass?” Rock asked when the moment passed.

“Mm-hmm?”

“Did you… did you mean what you said? That you’d defect? I’m sorry, I don’t want to bring down the mood, but I-“

“Yes,” Bass interrupted.

Rock paused, stunned. “Really? You’re sure?”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

Bass nodded. “Then I am, too.”

Rock smiled helplessly, leaning in for another kiss.

And for now, nothing else mattered.

When Torch awoke, he was alone.

The bed’s covers were carefully pulled up to his neck, and beside him he could feel the negative space where a body should’ve been. Had been.

This was usual.

But after last night, he’d hoped that they wouldn’t go back to being usual again. He’d hoped they could’ve moved onto something new; something more.

It was dumb.

Tundra burst through the doorway, curtain billowing behind him.

“Torch!” He shouted gleefully, accent thick.

The man in question bolted upright, then immediately relaxed when he recognised the voice. “Tundra? What-“

“Masterium’s retreating!” He interrupted.

Huh?

Wait-

_“What?”_

Tundra threw himself at Torch, sending them both toppling back onto the bed. Torch huffed, winded, but his eyes widened when lips met his ferociously.

… _Oh._

Oh!

He responded in kind, resting his hands against Tundra’s back gently. Torch watched him kiss him, fascinated. Tundra’s expression was once more unguarded: his brow was creased lightly in determination, and the edges of his lips tugged upwards against his.

When Tundra pulled back, the smile was still there. “No war, _net?_ I can have you to my heart’s desire.” It startled a laugh out of Torch, and he grinned broadly in its aftermath. “And I have you too, right?”

_“Da!”_

“Good.”

Their mouths met in the middle again.

Rock burst into the tent, gasping. His hair was messy and his cheeks were flushed, but he pushed himself to speak anyway.

“Bass!”

The general put down the quill, brow arching. “You okay?”

“You’re-“ Rock coughed. “You’re retreating!?”

Bass grinned. “Nope. Coup d’état.”

Rock gaped, stumbling closer a step, then closing the rest of the distance in a sprint. Bass was ready when they collided, arms already closing behind Rock to return the embrace. Rock squeezed him, then withdrew, then dove back in and pushed a kiss against his lips.

He wasn’t ever gonna tire of them, was he?

Rock grinned when they parted, lips glossy and breaths laboured. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Bass rushed out, equally dishevelled. “Fuck.”

The subject quickly soured. “But- Bass, are you sure? Wily won’t plan on abdicating inconspicuously. Also: ruling a nation and commanding an army may have similarities, but one serves you and _you_ serve the other—the throne won’t be a simple seat to occupy, of this I can assure you. Of course, I’ll be with you every step of the way; you can count on my support, but-“

Bass interrupted him with a short but insistent kiss. He’d never tire of that, either. “ _Babe_. I am. And thank you.”

The blush looked beautiful on Rock’s features. “Oh- well that’s. That’s good. Yes, and you’re welcome.”

He grinned devilishly, leaning in slowly to kiss him again. Rock let him, eyes fluttering closed. His arms slung across Bass’s shoulders, and he adjusted his straddle on Bass’s thighs to better align their lips.

Their mouths slot together perfectly.

Bass let the press of the kiss suffice, for a moment. But he had aspirations beyond chastity, today.

His tongue ran across the seam of Rock’s mouth, slipping in once given permission. Rock tasted like tea and raspberry jam, and Bass ran his tongue across its counterpart in pleasant surprise. Rock moaned. The weather was already hot and humid, but the air between them redefined thick: the whole experience felt, smelt, and tasted of honey.

He pulled Rock in by the neck for one last clash of tongues before pulling back.

Bass groaned low and satisfied as he took in Rock’s newfound debauched state, chuckling roughly. “You look delicious.”

Apparently, Rock’s face _could_ get redder.

“Thanks,” he squeaked.

They took their time to recuperate, and when he felt sufficiently level-headed, he spoke. “Look. I really don’t want to force you into doing anything, but we. Well, with the army marching in on Wily’s castle, we probably won’t be seeing each other for a while. And I’ll miss you. I… I want you. I guess what I’m trying to say is… uh. Do you wanna—later, not _right now,_ maybe tonight?”

Rock blinked, then spluttered. “Are you- do you mean, I- ah, sex?”

He said the word as if was his first time doing so. It probably was.

Bass nodded. He broke their gaze, feeling uncharacteristically shy—but forced himself to look Rock in the eyes. He needed him to know that he was serious. He’d treat him right.

Rock nodded slowly in return, “…yeah.”

“Yeah?” Bass grinned.

“Yes.”

He grabbed Rock by the chin, pulling him in for a kiss that served mostly as a promise.

“I’ll seeya at seven then, babe.”

“I’m leaving,” Tundra blurted. “I need to visit Bass.”

Torch blinked. His eyes widened.

“ _What?_ But- why?”

Tundra watched the ceiling intently beside him. The bed already felt emptier. “I’m sorry. The Bass that left for the frontlines wouldn’t cease an assault if his life was on the line, and he holds grudges better than any other man I’ve seen. The Bass that ordered a retreat? He’s different. I wish to see him.”

Torch was… speechless. “Uh.”

“I’m sorry,” Tundra repeated. “I understand if you’re angry with me. It was highly unkind of me to reveal this to you when you were barely waking up. It’s- well- I suppose what I’m trying to say is… I see him almost as a son. I’ve tried my best to raise him over the last years—from a spiteful, hateful child depressed beyond belief, to one with all of those qualities in manageable doses.”

Torch nodded. “…Ah. Okay. When are you going?”

“Tomorrow.”

He couldn’t help the surge of anger—and, hidden beneath it, hurt. Why did he wait this long to tell him? Why couldn’t he follow?

“The rebellion was successful,” he noted.

Tundra nodded cautiously.

“So, logically, I’m useless to the Cossacks. The only reason I’m still alive, according to your king, is because I’m _useful._ And what happens to a useful asset turned useless? Best case scenario: they simply kick me out. Worst case scenario, the Torch you return to will be under a tombstone.”

Tundra stumbled over his words. “I- Torch! That- that wouldn’t happen. I wouldn’t let it.”

He smiled grimly. “I’m sure you wouldn’t. Let’s work with the best case scenario, then. I’m alive. I have no food, nor shelter, nor employment in order to afford the previous two. I can’t speak the locals’ language, and no one could mistake me as anything but a foreigner. How long would I have to live, then?”

Tundra couldn’t reply.

“But that’s not what I find worst,” he barged on. “Because I can handle poverty, and unlikely odds. I’ve felt plenty of physical pain before—but if you leave me here, Tundra, I’ll be ruined.” He was desperate. Tundra couldn’t abandon him. He _couldn’t_.

But he _so easily_ could, and the idea terrified him.

“Let me come with you,” he pleaded.

Tundra’s brow scrunched in thought, lips pulled tight with confliction. And then he sighed a noise of defeat, and Torch felt like he could cry. “Alright. You may. I’m sorry.” He turned away from him, but Torch pulled Tundra’s back against his front and spooned him tightly in retaliation. “Thank you,” he murmured into his ear, “you’re forgiven.”

Tundra relaxed minutely.

They stayed like that, basking in each other’s warmth, until he fell asleep again.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> porn chapter: the sequel

Rock’s heart hammered as he stood outside the tent’s entrance.

His pocket watch told him the time was six fifty-seven. He still had time to back out of this. He could always say no.

He _could._ But despite the vertigo in his stomach and the loud thumping of his heartbeat—or perhaps _because of it—_ he didn’t want to. The look Bass had given him: slightly shy, mostly determined, with a hint of pleading? It told him that Bass wanted him. Wanted _him,_ not his body, his mouth, or his rear; he wanted Rock.

The thought burnt through his chest like oil.

Six fifty-eight.

He nodded once to himself, pushed open the tent’s entrance, then stepped inside. “Bass-“

He choked, eyes wide.

The general lay on the bed, duvet pushed down to his thighs, shirt rucked up to his hard nipples and—crucially—trousers lowered just enough to liberate his throbbing cock. One hand was placed beneath his head on the pillow, giving him an air of easy confidence, and the other… the other languidly stroked his length.

Bass stared back with equally wide eyes for a moment- and then a wide and ironically innocent grin broke out across his face. “Rock! You came!” He enthused, eyes sparkling.

Rock nodded dumbly. “Yes. I, ah- I came.” He swallowed, the unintentional innuendo dawning upon him a moment late. He couldn’t help it as his gaze fell to where Bass still held his member. It hadn’t softened a bit. His breathing shallowed.

Bass caught his stare, grin morphing into a smirk. “You want this?” He purred, giving his girth a lazy stroke. Rock caught the whine in his throat, nodding vigorously even as blood filled his cheeks. “Yes.” He whispered, strangled.

Bass gave his length two quick tugs. “Fuck,” he responded, eyes burning. “The entrance can be locked if you tie the rope on the flap.”

Rock turned, only now noticing the existence of their surroundings. He was quick to locate the part Bass was talking about, tying it to form a sturdy knot. It wouldn’t stop any truly determined intruders, but it would get the message across.

“Nobody disturbs me after seven ‘less they wanna get discharged, don’t worry,” Bass placated. “This was just for your peace of mind.”

Rock found himself making a weak noise of affirmation.

“Good. Now, take off your clothes,” Bass growled, giving his member an enticing squeeze. He hurried to comply, pulling his shirt off and throwing it to the corner of the tent, then pushing down his trousers to give them the same treatment. Last off were his undergarments, which he only hesitated for a moment with. He had nothing to be ashamed of, he reminded himself.

“Gorgeous. C’mere, babe,” Bass coaxed.

Rock’s member twitched embarrassingly, but he nearly stumbled over himself in his rush to comply nonetheless. He paused at the side of the bed, unsure—but Bass grabbed his wrist and tugged him on top when he did.

The heat of the general’s cock against his abdomen seared his nerves. It felt real; definite; this was it.

He yelped as a hand gripped his hair and tugged him upwards, which melted into a muffled moan when Bass smashed their lips together. He kneaded the globe of Rock’s cheek in his hand, all while they panted into each other’s mouths. Rock grounded himself against the sensations with both hands, tightly gripped around the general’s biceps.

When he pulled back, Bass’s eyes were glazed with lust. “Fuck,” he grunted, grinding his cock alongside Rock’s. He muttered it like a chant, repeating the word each time he thrust against Rock’s naval, seemingly lost in the heat of it all.

Rock was no better, moaning filthily at the feeling of the length rolling against him. He unlatched one hand from Bass’s bicep and clumsily manoeuvred it to grab around his cock. Bass moaned, thrusting into his grip as he fisted his hair tighter in his grasp and forced Rock’s head to tilt. The angle slotted their mouths together better, which give Bass the leverage required to thrust his tongue further into Rock’s mouth—far enough to push against his velum. The grip on his skull kept him there, drowning in Bass and loving it.

Rock pumped the cock lackadaisically, focussing on squeezing at the tip and pushing against the frenulum rather than tugging it to completion. It drove Bass wild, and the kiss grew almost animalistic in its desperation, then Bass pulled back. A bridge of saliva stretched and collapsed.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned. Rock was panting too hard to even attempt a response.

Bass dove into his neck, glossy lips parted as he sucked a mark into the skin, claiming him. His hand sped up on Bass’s length, jerking it in short bursts.

Rock could feel the love bite on the junction of his collarbone and neck, and even the idea was enough to excite him. He was _owned._ He was _wanted._ Bass tongued the bruise lasciviously before pulling back, eyes dragging up to meet his, then falling to stare at his lips. He thrust into Rock’s hold, and grabbed his fist with his hand to still it.

“Suck it,” he ordered. “I need your mouth on me, babe— _please.”_

The desperation in his eyes fuelled Rock’s arousal, and he nodded jerkily, removing his grip from Bass’s cock. He brought his hands up to rest on Bass’s abs, exploring the hard muscle absently but keeping his fingers away from the ramrod member just beneath. He started at Bass’s collar, kissing against it slowly and teasingly through the fabric, then rucked the shirt up a bit farther when he reached his pecs and lathered a nipple with his tongue. He didn’t even _know_ if it felt good, but it seemed like the right thing to do.

If Bass’s rumbling groans were any indication, he was right.

Impatient, Bass gripped the back of his neck and tugged him up for a hard, searing kiss. It was short, and Bass pulled away before either of them could get too involved. He moved both his hands to rest on Rock’s shoulders, then forced him further down his body. “C’mon, c’mon. Get _down,_ already,” he muttered roughly. Rock didn’t resist, letting himself be pushed lower. If he was being honest, the show of strength was _unfairly_ arousing.

Holding Bass’s cock was one thing, but _seeing it_ was another.

His expression must’ve been comical. “Heh, like what you see? Go on, touch it.” Bass smirked, thrusting his hips into the air seductively. His cock slapped against his naval, a sound that echoed through his empty mind. And damnit, he really _did_ like it—his fingers barely touched when he wrapped his fist around it again, and its smooth, unblemished skin made him want to lick it. So he did. Holding the base firm, he ran his tongue along the ridge on its underside. It tasted peculiar—but not bad, and on his second run he realised rather shamefully that he _liked_ the earthy musk.

He focussed on the uncut head, next, tonguing up the ridge to the frenulum and pushing the flat of his tongue against it, then continuing upwards to the slit and lapping up the precum. Again he was entranced by the salty, sticky substance.

Bass moved his hands from his shoulders to the back of Rock’s head, carding his fingers through the locks. He watched intently as Rock licked at his girth, pupils dilating at the sight. Rock glanced past the cock to meet his gaze, and Bass’s head fell back against the pillow with a long and low groan. The hands in his hair suddenly jerked him forward, and the length felt searing hot against his cheek. Pressed against his face like this, his chin grazed the sack and the tip brushed against his hair.

Bass moaned gutturally as he ground his member against his cheek. “Fuckin’— _please, Rock—_ just suck it,” he rumbled.

Rock huffed, licking against the underside. The grip on his head loosened, and after a moment, Bass’s fingers grazed his cheek apologetically. When Rock reached the tip again, he hesitated only for a second before wrapping his lips around the head and tonguing the underside. “Just like that, baby,” Bass muttered, but when Rock glanced up his eyes were shut in bliss. Already his jaw began to protest, the girth stretching his lips obscenely and pushing his tongue against the bottom of his mouth, but he forced himself lower nonetheless.

It was—distinctly odd. In and of itself, there was nothing pleasurable about it, but the stretch of his jaw, the throbbing heat in his mouth, and the goal of fitting it all was intoxicating. Bass’s musk was further muddying his thoughts, and all he could think of now was pushing himself down the rest of the member.

He was barely past the halfway mark when it hit the back of his throat.

He paused, the sensation foreign and uncomfortable, when Bass suddenly thrust in further. He gagged then, pushing against Bass’s clothed thighs in resistance. The length slid out, slick and glossy and _hard,_ but only to the head, where Bass forbade him from pulling off entirely. “Sorry,” rumbled the voice from above him. “Your mouth was, _fuck,_ ‘s so _hot_ and- I, I couldn’t resist. Is it okay if I continue?”

Rock panted harshly through his nose, and it felt like he wasn’t getting enough oxygen to be fully clear-headed. He was dizzy, and his uvula hurt, but he was shamefully aroused and wanted more.

He nodded, the cock’s head still resting on his tongue.

One of Bass’s hands brushed the hair from his forehead, carding the locks back against his scalp before gripping him there. “Look at me babe,” Bass cooed, hands pushing his head down at a gentler pace. Rock did, and the burning lust in Bass’s eyes clashed with the concern and the- the love. _Adoration._ “Let me help you out.” When he reached the halfway point and the tip bumped against his throat again, he stilled.

Bass understood immediately. “Tilt your head back,” he instructed. One hand gripped Rock’s chin, the other his hair, and together they tilted his angle until he faced Bass with the length still lodged in his throat.

The new position pressed the head further into his uvula, but before he could complain, Bass thrust the rest of his cock into his mouth. The girth invaded his throat, pulsing softly and choking him. It must’ve felt amazing for Bass, if his loud moan was any indication, but Rock was actively pushing back the urge to gag again.

Suddenly, the cock slipped from his throat as he was yanked off. Bass pulled him up into yet another searing kiss, and they both moaned as he ground their members together. His tongue stroked against the places his cock had battered seconds before, a soft and relieving contrast.

When he next pulled back, he held Rock’s head in place by his hair. They both panted harshly, but Bass took a moment to look into his eyes. He stared, almost in wonder, at Rock’s irises—and Rock couldn’t help but do the same.

His breath hitched. Bass was beautiful. And he loved him.

Rock instigated the next kiss, a slow press of lips that he allowed Bass to escalate again. He reciprocated fiercely—he needed Bass to know how he felt, even if he couldn’t muster the breath to say it.

Hands travelled down his back, running fingers along his shoulders, then spine, until they reached his ass. Rock whimpered as he felt Bass knead it, then plunged back into the heated kiss when Bass ground them together again. “Bass-“

“Shh, babe. You know what to do,” he interrupted, and the pressure was back on his shoulders. Rock paused, then nodded, allowing himself to be coerced once more. The throbbing cock just a centimetre from his nose was a sight he was finding himself acclimating to. He ran a stripe up the length with his tongue, then wrapped his lips around the tip and plunged himself onto the rest of the length. Again the head bumped against his throat, but this time he didn’t need Bass’s guiding hand gripping his hair to tilt his head back and accept it further.

“Good boy,” Bass murmured, stroking his cheek comfortingly. Rock preened under the praise, even if (possibly because) it was unorthodox.

He rose to the tip, sucking the head and tonguing the frenulum. Bringing one hand to the base of the girth, he pumped it rhythmically and followed his grip with his lips. The member was slick in his hand from his saliva, and his tongue tasted more precum each time it swiped over the slit. It tasted like lust.

“Fuck, Rock… like that, baby. Just like that.” Bass was panting harder, muscles tense under Rock’s fingers as they explored his chest and traced patterns down his thighs.

He moved his hand from Bass’s cock to cup his sack, and that’s when Bass forced down his head to deepthroat him again. This time, though, he held him there, both hands tight above the base of his skull. Rock swallowed, then gagged, then choked on the girth, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes in protest. Still he wasn’t allowed to move, nose buried in the curls at the base of his cock. Bass groaned a guttural noise, then released him.

Rock pulled off in a rush, throat and lungs alike burning. He coughed, but before he could even get a word out, Bass pushed him onto his back and straddled his chest.

“What are you-“ he tried, but then the tip was resting against his slightly parted mouth. Glancing up, Bass was watching him with a lustful flame burning in his eyes. “You want this?” He rumbled, swiping the head across his lips. Rock nodded, licking at the drooling slit.

But Bass didn’t thrust in. There was a pause, his hands brushing against his cheeks, and when his voice came it sounded concerned. “Use your words, baby.”

Rock blinked, then smiled. Bass was rough and rude—but he still loved Rock. And he loved him back.

“Yes.”

Bass’s fingers lingered on his face for a moment longer before they gripped his hair and his hips punched forwards. Rock gagged as Bass moaned, but he didn’t slow his thrusts. Each jerk forward battered the back of his throat, and the pace was too quick and too rough to give him time to breathe. Rock gripped Bass’s muscled thighs like a lifeline, but made no move to slow the punishing thrusts. Every jab into his mouth made the filthiest of sounds as Bass’s cock slid in with a slick slap, choked him when it hit his uvula, then slid out smoothly.

Bass was grunting harshly each time his hips punched forward, balls slapping against Rock’s chin. His mouth was parted as he panted loudly, but his eyes stayed trained on where his cock invaded Rock’s mouth: magnetised to the sight. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he groaned. “So pretty. Swallow it, babe. Oh, yeah.”

Rock complied, swallowing around the length as he began to acclimate to the brutal pace. Glancing up, he met Bass’s gaze with lidded eyes.

His breathing sped up in time with his thrusts, and his eyes didn’t tear from Rock’s as he stilled, lips pulling into a snarl, then roared as he came. His torso hunched over, towering over Rock and thrusting against his throat in rough stabs forward. He spluttered, choking on the cum filling his throat in jets, then overflowing into his mouth. He swallowed quickly around the girth, struggling not to accidentally inhale the result of their passion.

Bass moaned, spilling a final rope of cum against his throat before he stilled. Rock took the respite to breathe, the musky air invading his nostrils. Bass ground against his mouth one last time before he pulled out, huffing as his cock came out glossy.

The taste of his length and his cum lingered on Rock’s tongue, and he swallowed several times to try and rid his throat of its semen lining.

“I-“ He started, then coughed. Clearing his throat and swallowing again, the air he inhaled caught and he devolved into a coughing fit. Bass was quick to get off his torso, hands hovering in the air between them. “Rock, fuck… you okay?”

He didn’t try to respond verbally, nodding instead as he tried to stop the fit. When he did, he sent Bass a watery smile and murmured a reply as softly as he could. “Yes. Of course.”

“I was too rough, wasn’t I?” Bass fretted. He wiped away a line of saliva from Rock’s chin.

“I liked it.”

Bass huffed, leaning up to place a chaste kiss against Rock’s mouth. It was soft, for a moment, but Rock was quick to push back into the press of their lips. He keened needily, tongue brushing across the seam of Bass’s mouth, who groaned around the wet appendage. “Fuck,” he whispered hoarsely, pulling back. “Bass,” Rock replied, eyes lidded and arms snaking around his neck. “Please.”

He wasted no time in diving back in with a growl, previous chastity forgotten.

Rock thrust needily against his abs, and Bass realised belatedly that there wasn’t any cum splattered on Rock’s chest. “Shit,” He muttered, pulling back from the kiss to glance down Rock’s body. “You didn’t cum?” When he looked back at his face, Rock could only shake his head weakly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he growled, leaning in to resume their kiss. “I should be saying that. I was selfish. I’ll do better this time.” He spoke between their kisses, each sentence increasingly low and rough. “Lemme fuck you, Rock. I’ll be good to you. You’ll get everything you deserve.”

There was no hesitation in his hurried nod. “Yes! I want that, Bass, please.”

He nodded, then grinned, then held Rock’s face in his hands and pushed a passionate kiss against his lips. He accepted it graciously. “I love you,” Bass whispered when he pulled back.

“I love you too.”

A final peck on his mouth was all the warning he received before Bass got off the bed entirely. Rock’s protest died in his throat, though, when he started undressing. Off went the shirt, revealing a muscled torso he knew the feel of all to well—but wanted to explore all over again nonetheless—and Bass caught him staring. He didn’t say anything, but his smirk widened and his hands were significantly slower when they pulled down his trousers. The teasing reveal of his thighs and legs killed Rock’s final, flimsy internal doubts, and then Bass was naked.

Rock swallowed, trying to find his voice.

“You should be illegal,” he managed.

Bass barked a laugh, his eyes lighting up in mirth then darkening in lust. “That didn’t stop you when I was. Patience,” he rumbled. “You’ll get what you want eventually.”

“Eventually?” Rock whined. “I’ve long since eclipsed want, Bass. I _need_ this.”

“Patience,” he repeated, strutting lazily to his bedside table and pulling out a bottle of oil. Rock eyed it in a mixture of weariness and anticipation as Bass poured it over his fingers.

“What are you doing?” Rock mumbled when Bass got on the bed. He crawled up to Rock, eyes belaying a lustful apatite and now-slick fingers resting against his entrance. He clenched unwittingly. “Preparing you,” he replied, smirk usurped by a gentle smile for only a moment. “I told you I’d do it properly; I want you to enjoy this.” And then, “I’m too big to fuck you without it. Your little body would break.”

Rock flushed. “Prepare away,” he choked.

Bass leant in slowly, hovering infinitesimally close without their noses touching, leaving it to Rock to close the distance. He did, pushing forward and pressing their mouths together passionately. He parted his lips to let Bass explore him, and it was like that, lost in the moment, that Bass pushed the first finger in.

Rock gasped through the kiss, but Bass didn’t pull away. He angled his head and pushed in further, caressing Rock’s mouth with his tongue and easing him back into relaxation. Slowly, Rock forced himself to loosen up around the foreign sensation, only squirming slightly when the rest of the finger pushed in.

Bass ground his erection against Rock’s thigh absently, letting the background pleasure suffice. The heat against him made Rock moan around Bass’s tongue, letting the distraction take his mind off the mild discomfort below.

When Bass thrust in a second finger, Rock pulled away from the kiss by instinct alone, a hiss escaping his mouth. “Shh, babe. Relax, you’re doing so good. Doing great for me, Rock, you’re okay. Good boy.”

The soft comforts murmured into his ear helped. He forced himself to obey, unclenching his muscles through force of will and other imaginary powers. The fingers inside him thrust slowly, letting him adjust. When Bass leant in to deliver a thorough but equally relaxed kiss, Rock accepted it eagerly.

When the fingers pulled out, he clenched unwittingly. Bass pushed his legs to the side gently, stopping before it could become uncomfortable—and then Rock noticed, truly _noticed,_ how bare he was. Vulnerable. And how, despite it, he’d never felt safer than when Bass encaged him with his arms and pushed another kiss against his lips.

He trusted him implicitly.

Bass lowered himself on his arms, resting on his elbows and pressing the entire length of their torsos together. One hand went down and guided his member closer, until something broad and hot and unyielding pressed against his entrance.

Rock looped his arms around Bass’s neck and nodded. The girth pressed in.

He clenched as it entered, but stayed otherwise silent as Bass’s cock breached him and pushed along his walls. He’d been right: the girth felt like it would’ve been a painful ordeal had he not been prepared. Bass pushed in slowly, carefully, and his hands reached up to untangle the arms from his neck and interlace their fingers on either side of Rock’s head.

Bass pulled back when he bottomed out, eyes searching through his and expression unreadable. His thighs pressed against Rock’s in grinding circles.

“I love you,” he murmured.

“Me too,” Rock replied breathlessly. The fabled ecstasy of sex had yet to reach him, but the burning in his stomach that he knew wasn’t Bass’s member likely rivalled it anyway. Their lips met again, then again, then Bass pushed his mouth against Rock’s hard enough to bruise and pulled out to the tip.

Rock whimpered. Bass pushed his tongue through his lips. And then he thrust forward in a smooth press of his hips.

This burn wasn’t love—but Rock loved it nonetheless. He hissed, but pushed back against Bass’s kiss when his hips paused. He wanted this. Bass obliged him, drawing out and plunging back in smoothly. Rock’s breath hitched. Bass grunted in response.

He thrust in again, equally smooth and gentle and thorough, then again, repeating the motion that brought them both more pleasure with each piston of his hips.

Bass tilted his head and deepened the kiss, and that was all the warning he got before the next thrust punched in like a horse’s kick. Bass’s hand tightened against his, pinning him in place against the jarring motion and pushing his hands further from Rock’s body. When he next withdrew, he pulled back too, eyes searching Rock’s. “Liked that?” He murmured. “I’ve had my fun; we’re doing this your way, Rock.”

He nodded quickly.

Bass smiled, leaning in to press a kiss against Rock’s neck, pushing his thighs further apart with his knees. And then he speared him open on his cock, and his mind went blank again. “Fuck!” Rock hissed-gasped-moaned, hands tightening across Bass’s shoulders desperately. To his frustration, Bass stilled. He was about to mutter an order, or a plea, or something in between, when a growl husky with lust rumbled against his ear. “Say that again.”

Rock shivered at the tone, then paused. Had he said something? He-

Oh.

“Uh-“ He stuttered, face burning. “I-I didn’t say anything?”

“Liar,” Bass grunted. He pulled out, then jabbed forward in another brutal, bordering-painful thrust. Rock’s breath hitched mid-moan. “Say it.”

“…Say what?”

Bass growled, biting his shoulder suddenly. Rock spared a moment to send his dick—which had waned slightly, only to now jump back to full hardness—a mental beratement. “I made you swear,” Bass growled. “Do you know how fucking hot that is? _Say it.”_

Rock swallowed, ankles locking around Bass’s lower back in an attempt to get him to thrust again. He did not. Rock could count the number of times he’d sworn on one hand, and it felt filthy to utter—let alone in an effort to get Bass to spear him open with his cock again—but he’d be lying if he said that it didn’t excite him.

“F-fuck,” he whispered.

“What was that, prince?”

“Fuck.”

_“Louder.”_

“Fuck!” He shouted, a stupid grin spreading his lips even as his face’s shade of red deepened. For now, the outside world was a distant concern. Bass’s smirk looked flammable when he pulled back, teeth visible and gleaming. _“Good,”_ he crooned, hand coming up to grip Rock’s chin. He leant forwards, pushing their lips together and invading Rock’s mouth with his sly tongue just as he buried his cock in Rock again. He couldn’t help it as he grinned into the kiss, an exhilaration burning through his veins at such a simple faux-pas. Goodness, Bass was a bad influence—and he loved him despite (because of) it.

The hand released his chin once Bass’s tongue was buried in his mouth, and it travelled back down Rock’s arm, past his elbow and his wrist to interlock their fingers. Thoroughly connected now, with Bass’s knees spreading his thighs, Rock’s legs locked around his waist, and their hands clenched tightly around each other’s, the thrusts increased both in power and in frequency.

The brutal punches of his hips sawed in and out of him roughly as their respective orgasms neared, the slick squelches of Bass’s cock plunging in each time filling the tent with the sounds of their debauchery. Equally loud, every slap of their hips tore a multitude of vocalisations from them both: Rock whimpered, gasped, and moaned; Bass grunted, purred, and growled.

“Fuck, take it, take it! Yeah, like that, baby- _oh yeah,_ takin’ my cock _so well.”_

It was ecstasy, and pain, and unbridled passion. It was base, and sloppy, and unbelievably ungraceful.

He loved it.

“I, Bass- _hah, fuck-_ Bass! Close, please don’t stop, please, oh _yes_ goodness _Bass-!”_ Rock babbled incoherently, but the general decoded it nonetheless: he wanted more. “Yeah,” he grunted roughly. “Same here, babe.” Bass’s hand shot down to tug roughly on Rock’s member, because he was past the point of no return now and he wanted to make sure Rock came too, this time. The action elicited a shuddering groan from him, and it barely took three seconds for him to moan his release. Cum shot out across their abdomens, and the whimper he let out as he let go fuelled Bass’s final, brutal thrusts as he raced to completion.

His hips juddered as he came, cock shooting ropes of cum deep in the hot, constricting entrance. Rock could feel it—an odd warmth blossoming somewhere in his guts, a brand searing into his very being. He was Bass’s, and Bass was his. He let out a final, weak moan at the sensation, barely audible under Bass’s loud groans. It sounded like a roar, and the thought made him huff deliriously. Would that make him his mate?

Bass pulled out slowly, his yet half-hard member flopping out and leaving Rock’s entrance clenching. He collapsed beside him, both of them panting and sweat-drenched. “Sorry,” was the first word out of Bass’s mouth, because of course it was. “Shoulda asked you if you wanted me to pull out.”

“Pull out?” Rock echoed weakly.

“Not cum inside you.”

The bluntness made his dick twitch slightly. _No._ He was tired enough already. “Well,” he swallowed. “I wanted you to, so you don’t have to worry.”

“It’s the principle that matters.”

“The ‘principle’ is the fact that I adore you,” Rock shot back, side-eyeing Bass. He made a double-take then stared, but the tension shattered when Bass snorted. “Fuck. Of course you’d say that.”

 _“What?”_ Rock squeaked indignantly, equal parts embarrassed, confused, and hurt. “What do you mean by _that?”_

“That I adore you too, dumbass,” Bass laughed. Rock blinked, then relaxed, glancing away. “Oh. That’s nice.”

Another snort, and then Bass was gently turning his head to face him again. “Look, sorry. I’m just used to sex as a transaction. This’d be about the time where you’d get up, dress up, and leave with an obviously forced smile and wink. So I guess I. Well, I’m just so fucking glad you love me too, Rock.”

The prince stared for a moment. And then, slowly, a smile blossomed across his features. “I am, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't originally, supposed to be entirely its own chapter, but then I realised that, it was nearly 5000 words,


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter before the epilogue, folks!

The march back to the capital had been a sight to remember indeed. Two armies—carefully separated so as not to cause any infighting—marching one after another, horses alongside troops and cannons. They snaked their way through the rural roads like ants on the forest floor, and by the end of the month they’d reached the walls of the city, the forces’ war camp sprawled to the horizon.

Bass saw it all from his perch on the hill, but none of that was what mattered. In front of him, the city’s rooftops pierced the sky.

The capital was impenetrable, Bass loathed to admit. The slums, with their narrow, winding network of alleys were a better defence than the walls beyond them, who’s men unquestioningly obeyed his commands. It would be the butt of a general’s joke to try and fit two whole armies through its streets. Instead, Rock and he would be forced to venture through it with a small entourage on their way to the castle. There was a reason the city wasn’t a trading hub.

As soon as they reached the noble district, it’d be smooth sailing up to the castle’s gates, and there they’d face Wily together.

And then… they’d figure out the rest.

As long as Rock was by his side, they’d be fine. They’d make it out the other side. They’d already done it once; it was about time they did it again.

Tundra viewed the war camp with a dawning sense of reality. This was happening. Bass was overthrowing his father.

Was it for the better? Would he be a good ruler? Or would he fall to the same corruption his father before him had so abhorred, too?

None of that mattered, today. Wily wouldn’t play fair—this was a matter of survival.

Tundra’s face showed none of his startlement when Torch placed a hand on his shoulder. “You alright?”

Tundra nodded. “Splendid.”

Torch walked up to the wall’s battlements beside him, and they spent a moment in silence together. He appreciated it.

“Wily won’t be overthrown peacefully,” he remarked. Torch didn’t turn to him, but a small smile tugged at his lips. “No, I didn’t figure he would.”

“Bass and Rock both shall go in expecting Wily to put up too little of a fight, too late—or perhaps to be too emotional to put up any at all,” Tundra continued. “They shall be wrong in their assumption, and unless we prepare a contingency, it shall be their fatal mistake.”

“I take it you’ve scouted his defences?” Torch replied smoothly.

 _“Da,_ naturally.”

Torch turned to him, a smirk fixed on his lips and a fire in his eyes. Fitting, Tundra thought absently.

“Well let’s start on that contingency, then, huh?”

He nodded.

The carriage had been a tight fit through even the widest of the slum’s streets, but it all opened up magnificently as they reached the gates. Bass sat beside him on the bench, outwardly calm—but too calm, in a manner that told Rock everything he needed to know. He didn’t blame Bass for a second; it’d be hypocritical, with the anxiety that coursed through his veins.

Rock couldn’t break the silence. His mind ran too quickly for his mouth to know what to say.

So he looked outside, instead. At the marble palaces and cobbled streets, at the tall streetlights and taller trees. This would be his new home. Roll had been reluctant, but Light: the optimist as ever, couldn’t have been happier about Abel’s newfound ally.

‘Rock, that’s wonderful!’ He’d exclaimed, a hearty grin on his face. ‘I’d say it’s _about time_ you found a consort!’

‘But—aren’t I supposed to produce heirs?’

‘Heirs? Hah, your sister’s got that covered, boy! Go to Masterium and ensure us those cordial relations you’re famous for!’ Light’s eyes gained a dangerous gleam. ‘But don’t think I haven’t heard what he’s already done to you, Rock. Cordial relations would only be a front for an easier assassination if he lays an unwanted finger on you again.’

Rock smiled at the memory. He’d miss them.

The castle loomed above the carriage, tall spires and monolithic bricks welcoming him back unpleasantly. The two guards manning the entrance nodded at the driver, then each other, then opened the gate slowly. It closed once they passed the threshold, and Rock was reminded again of how few soldiers had accompanied them: barely a dozen of the most acclaimed.

Wily stood where Bass had, all those months ago, atop the stairs that led to the entrance, with a similar scowl etched onto his face.

Rock sent Bass a glance. He intercepted it, and gave his hand a short but heartening squeeze before stepping outside. A deep breath later, Rock followed him.

Wily didn’t begin until he was sure he’d be heard, and then a bit, letting the three (plus twelve others) stew in the acrid silence.

“General. It seems you’ve failed me.”

Bass twitched, lips thinning dangerously. “Failure implies I didn’t achieve what I set out to do, dad. My goal, right now—and, at least subconsciously, for the past four months—has been to be with Rock. I’d say I’m performing superbly.”

“And I’d agree with you, because a dog’s sole purpose is to please its master,” He sneered.

The soldiers behind them were antsy, unfamiliar with Wily’s brand of antagonising. Rock _was_ , and he still wasn’t sure whether they should’ve been reaching for their swords.

Bass didn’t lash out, and for that alone Rock felt stupidly proud. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, then let go. “Why are you saying this? It’s not exactly convincing me to march back to the frontlines and fight for you again.” He ground out.

“Because, Bass, there is no greater joy than gloating.”

“Gloating is only applicable when you’ve already won—and I don’t feel like gloating to you.”

“Oh but general, _you haven’t won,”_ Wily smirked manically, gaze piercing as he began to calmly walk down the steps. Rock couldn’t read him—was he bluffing? What good would that have done?

Their soldiers unsheathed their swords in unison, and Wily’s responded similarly. But it still made no sense: the soldiers were equally matched in number, but they had the advantage of skill; why was Wily so _confident_ that he’d win?

It was only then that Rock noticed that the barracks were on fire.

The doors were shut tightly and barricaded from the outside, and the windows billowed smoke. Screams pierced the air, and the charred outlines of soldiers could be seen escaping through various means—one went so far as to jump from the second-floor balcony; he didn’t get up.

Rock stumbled backwards.

Bass stared.

The opposing soldiers dropped their weapons and fled.

And Wily began to rant. “No—no, no _no! WHAT DID YOU DO!?”_ He turned to them, fingers pointing wildly. _“I’ll have you hung, drawn, and quartered, you hear me!? I-“_

A bolt pierced his chest, the wet squelch deafening in the sudden silence. He choked, then coughed, then fell in quick succession, and no one dared to move.

“ _Krasivyy!_ Splendid job with the pyrotechnics, Torch.” Tundra walked up behind them, crossbow held loosely in his hand. A mountain—man, Rock corrected himself—followed, with all the air of a bodyguard. Bass sent him a reproachful glance a second before turning to Tundra. “What. The. _Fuck,”_ he growled, marching up to him. The man: Torch, looked ready to intervene until Tundra rubbed his bicep shortly. _“Da?_ Is something the matter, Bass?”

“Those were _my men,_ Tundra! And- never mind that, you just assassinated my dad!” A quick confirming glance at Wily—chest ever pierced by that bolt, staining his white coat red—proved him a corpse.

Rock still couldn’t process it.

“They we’re Wily’s,” Tundra corrected gently, “and you walked directly into an ambush your father so lovingly set up.” And, before Bass could protest, he continued. _“Dobrota,_ where are my manners? Bass, Rock, meet Torch. Torch, our resident rulers.”

“You’re Bass?” Torch blinked. “I’ve heard plenty about you! Great to meet you,” he smiled, and stuck out a hand. A moment passed, and then Bass shook it.

Rock nearly fled when Torch turned his attention to him. “And you’re the prince of Abel, right? Charmed, your highness.” Again, a hand to shake. Rock swallowed, smiled weakly, and marvelled at the gentle grip when he finally put his hand in Torch’s.

The handshake ended, and Rock hurried as nonchalantly as he could back to Bass’s side.

“Tundra called you a ruler, too,” Rock murmured. “That means—you’re next in line for the throne aren’t you? Does that make you Masterium’s new leader?” Bass sent him a look that screamed expletive panic. “Oh. Great. _Fuck._ Fuck!” Bass sent Tundra a murderous glare. _“You-“_

-And choked off when Rock hurried to embrace him from behind.

“We’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.”

“Fucking- shit. I-I hated him. I wished him dead so many times. Why- why do I-“

“He was still your father, Bass. It’s natural.”

The general nodded slowly, pulling from the embrace for only a moment to turn around and return it fully. Rock’s heart fractured at the short, quiet _“fuck”_ Bass uttered, face hidden in his shoulder. He sent Tundra a reproachful look over Bass’s hair, who had the decency to look abashed.

Turning to the soldiers, most still in varying states of shock, he covered Bass’s ear gently. “Enter the castle and inform any remaining guards that Wily has been killed, and that they now answer to the general. Incapacitate those who do not comply and refrain from lethal force if possible—enough have died today as it is.”

They obeyed quickly.

“Tundra, Torch. If you’d be so kind, that’d apply to the two of you, too.”

They nodded.

Before long, Bass and he were alone in a courtyard with only the stench of smoke and a corpse for company.

The fight they’d fought for four months now had come to an end—but it was the start of a new one. One for peace, prosperity, and stability; the good of their people, and the good of other nations affected, too. It wouldn’t be easy.

It never was, with them.

“Rock?” Bass pulled back, finally.

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

Rock smiled. Maybe it wouldn’t be all bad.

“I love you too.”

The room they’d been leant had a queen bed, Torch realised.

“ _Smotret’!_ It’s a leap, bound, and marathon more pleasant than the servants’ quarters,” Tundra remarked as he stepped in behind him. “And- Oh. How considerate,” he stumbled, eyes locking onto the same furniture Torch stared at. He walked towards it slowly, then, as if making a conscious effort to dispel the awkward air, fell onto it backwards. “Well. I suppose we could’ve staged a slightly less dramatic entrance,” he muttered, “but I truly believed Bass would not care.”

“Wily _was_ his parent, you know,” Torch raised a brow. He sat down on the bed beside Tundra, continuing. “Losing one of them is never a fun time.” Tundra hummed his agreement, “And, I suppose we could’ve simply _locked_ the barracks.”

“They would’ve found an exit and descended on us anyway. We didn’t have the time to do much cleaner a job than that; three hours isn’t a lot to work with.” Tundra nodded absently, then smiled. “We succeeded, though. Rock and Bass live, so do we, and the city’s intact. Every requirement ticked."

Torch snorted, sending him a glance. “I thought your standards were higher than that, considering your position as ‘top spy’ of the Cossacks.” His expression soured. “Oh, and. Speaking of, how long do you think we have together? Before you have to return. You’ve seen Bass, right?”

“I have?” Tundra joked, earning himself a glare. _“Da,_ of course. I have.” His smile melted off. “Do you wish to return?”

“It isn’t my choice to make.”

“I’m not asking you to make a choice. I’m requesting an honest answer.”

“…No.” Torch admitted, “I don’t.”

“Then I simply shan’t.”

“ _Tundra_ ,” he reproached.

“I can’t make a well-informed decision without knowing what it is _you_ desire, Torch,” He murmured gently. “Bass would be happy to let us join the Masterium forces. No change of profession required—it is simply those above us who’ll alter.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Fuck, Tundra. I- _thank you.”_

He tugged Torch down onto the bed to lay beside him. “I’m happier when I’m with you,” he remarked offhandedly. “It isn’t a selfless act, I assure you.” Torch sent him a grin, and leaned in for a short kiss, which Tundra reciprocated with a small, hidden smile that he reserved for Torch.

They’d be alright, in the end. They’d come too far to not be.

Bass looked regal on the throne, even as he sprawled lazily across it and used the armrest as a headrest. Rock sat at its base, head cradled softly on Bass’s abs.

“Yeah, but the people will want their countries back,” Bass retorted, sighing. “I don’t blame them, but it just makes all of this a lot harder. All under one empire, everyone could band together in their hatred of Masterium. Split into individual countries, they’ll break out into petty squabbles and territorial disputes. I could always take the easy route and put the borders where they were, but that’d leave millions of ethnic Masterians in lands owned by people who despise them—and there’d probably _still_ be wars, because no one can ever get along; fuck!”

He sighed a long, drawn-out noise that spoke aptly of their current hardship. “Rock. Do you have any suggestions?”

He turned his head lazily to look up at Bass, eyelids low in lethargy. “I suppose we could… oh, this’ll sound cruel, but. If we divide the lands to please as many as possible—give every ethnicity their own country, every language and religion its own autonomous region—the nations would be so small and numerous that they’d have no choice but to work together to get anything done at all. Perhaps it could work?”

Bass watched him for a moment, then huffed. “Damn. Never thought you could be so ruthless.”

Rock stiffened. “I- no! I’m not ruthless, I’m doing my best to stop any kind of ethnic cleansing campaigns from starting in the first pla-“

“I know,” Bass grinned, placing a finger on Rock’s lips. “It was a joke. You’re the nicest guy I’ve ever met, babe.”

“Oh,” He replied verbosely against the finger. “Thanks.”

Bass laughed again, then fell silent. His hand ran through the hair on Rock’s scalp, then rested on his cheek. “Fuck,” he murmured under his breath, and suddenly he sounded miserable. “I can’t keep you here.”

“Sorry?” Rock asked, brow furrowing.

“It was selfish of me—I even recognised it at the time, but I was just- I was just _so fucking desperate_ to be by your side. I never wanted that to change. But I can see now: you don’t deserve this. You’re an amazing prince fit only for the best kingdom out there, and Masterium’s holding you back. I dragged you here, to this nation of murderers and exploitive fucks, with too many problems to count in a lifetime, expecting you to survive because I didn’t know what I’d do if you didn’t. But you will—and that’s the problem. Masterium will corrupt you, and you’re too perfect for that.”

“Bass?”

“You’re my second in command, right?”

Rock startled, but hurried to nod enthusiastically. “Yes. I’ll help you through this, Bass. You can-“

“So I have authority over you.”

“…Yes? Perhaps?”

“Then I’m ordering you to go back to Abel,” Bass muttered. His gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling, the hand on Rock’s cheek moving off to let him go. _Let him go._

“No.”

Bass turned back to him, eyes full of pain. “Rock-“

 _“No,”_ Rock repeated more forcefully. Jumping up to saddle Bass’s lap, he leant forward and grabbed his face with both hands. “I may be your second in command, but as your advisor, too, I’m telling you that this would be the worst tactical decision you’ve ever made—and as your lover, Bass, I’m telling you no. I won’t leave you. _Ever.”_

Bass stared into his eyes, vulnerable and lost and seeking reassurance. “I love you,” Rock murmured, and it didn’t matter how many times he’d already said it. He’d say it ‘till the castle crumbled if that would make him understand it. “Don’t forget that.” And slowly, softly, he leaned forwards.

Bass closed the distance, and they kissed. Rock smiled.

In the end, they’d be alright. As long as they were together.


	27. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It ends.

The map in the palace’s war room was dusty with misuse, but bright despite the fact. Every colour on the spectrum filled the continent in uneven blotches, running across open fields and meeting at rivers and mountain ridges.

Arcadia, a vibrant green at the foothills of the mountains, was surrounded by blue, red, and various other colours of the rainbow. Its historic successful independence effort inspired insurgencies throughout the continent, evidenced by the ongoing reconstruction efforts. Near the capital, the largest military base of the nation waited patiently to become useful once more, brimming with soldiers yet mostly leftover from the resistance. Its massive complex had all the necessary amenities, and barracks were certainly one of them: the structures sprawled across at least a third of the base.

And in one of them, Blast and Gemini stole a moment alone.

“Shit,” the latter muttered, pulling back from a lascivious kiss. “If you keep doing that, we’re both going to be fucked.”

“No,” Blast corrected, satisfied smirk lazy on his lips, “I will, and you’ll be doing it.”

Gemini growled, lust spiking through his very being as he pushed Blast further up the wall. “If we get caught, _you’re_ taking the blame.”

“Deal.”

“…That was a joke,” Gemini scowled, glancing away. “I wouldn’t actually do that. I-“

“Love ya too, Gem, but there’re no takebacks and now, ya gotta fuck me.” Blast ground down against his erection, pulling a low groan from his lips. Gemini pushed forward for another deep, searing kiss before he pulled back again. “I suppose a deal’s a deal.”

“Damn right it is.”

They knew well how to evade suspicion, and they weren’t caught that day. Nor were they the day before, or after, or the rest of the numerous passionate attempts whenever they got the chance.

Just over a week’s ride away and across the river, one would enter the red nation of Masterium. Its political sphere had become vastly more transparent since the coup d’état: a conscious decision from the country’s two most powerful figures—rumoured to be lovers by the working class and widely accepted as such by the nobles. Although in the midst of an economic downturn following the high of the war, the government’s approval ratings were soaring through successive reforms and housing initiatives. And while there had been numerous attempts at overthrowing the new, unprofitable rulers: the leaders of such attempts had an awful tendency of simply vanishing overnight and never being seen again.

It was an open secret that the two investigators assigned to these cases were not detectives at all. And although most of the opposition feared their names, they could do little to combat them if they caused too dangerous of a stir.

Torch and Tundra returned from one such silencing successfully.

“Your aim was off,” Tundra remarked, entering the servants’ passageways. Torch followed, closing the door behind them. “You’re lucky it fell too low rather than curved too far; one missed shot and he would’ve been alerted.”

“It still got his throat,” Torch rebutted, lightly indignant. “And why don’t _you_ try shooting a target the size of a melon from more than a hundred metres away—with wind, and the knowledge that if you fail, innocents could die?”

“I have,” Tundra deadpanned. “Multiple times.” Torch blinked, then huffed, turning away.

He continued, “but either way this mission was for _you_ to practise _your_ skills, not me.”

“It was to _assassinate_ a target, not target _practice,”_ Torch grumbled in reply.

He pushed open the door to their room, taking a moment to adjust to the brighter environment before allowing Tundra to follow him in. As soon as he did, however, the door slammed shut and Torch pushed him against it with a lustful fire in his eyes.

Torch pre-emptively silenced the protest by pressing a harsh kiss against his mouth and shaping Tundra’s lips with his. Relaxing immediately, he crossed his legs behind Torch’s back for support.

Tundra pulled back, composing himself quickly. “Whatever was that for?” He cocked a brow, lips yet glossy with saliva.

“That,” Torch rumbled, “was for a week of distractions and a night of stress.”

“How exactly was that _my_ doing?” Tundra laughed, which Torch was quick to smother with another deep and thorough kiss.

“It’s rarely the medicine’s fault that one grows ill, isn’t it?” He replied.

Tundra blinked, then broke out into a gleeful smile. “You and your ever-present debauchery,” he chided unsuccessfully. “Shall I ever be afforded a respite?”

“Shall you ever want it, yes,” Torch shot back, and he met no resistance when he dove back in for another searing kiss.

In that same castle, in a war room that had long since outgrown its use, Masterium’s two most powerful men played chess.

“Bass.”

“Rock,” the general muttered.

_“Bass.”_

He moved the king another tile closer. Rock pulled his back one. “It’s a _tie,_ Bass.”

“No it isn’t,” he retorted smoothly.

“We only have one piece left each,” Rock explained. “A king can’t topple another king.”

“Yes he can.”

“Technicalities. You don’t believe me braindead, do you?”

“Slipping up once doesn’t make you braindead, it makes you human,” Bass corrected. “Slipping up once is all I need to win.”

“I’m not going to ‘slip up’—the only tactic I need is to simply _move away_. That is it.”

“Until I corner you,” he purred.

“There’s no way to checkmate me with a _king!_ You- oh, this is going nowhere.” Rock flicked his last remaining piece down, huffing exasperatedly. “Oh, goodness. It would seem I have fallen. I suppose that would make _you_ the victor, Bass, and _me_ the defeated.”

“You can’t do that,” the general-cum-king declared, brow furrowed as he stared at the fallen piece. “You can’t give up.”

“I haven’t given up,” Rock corrected him, “a mighty gale seems to have blown down my king. He is mortally wounded.”

“Pick him back up. No mighty fuckin’ gale is ending this game early.”

“I cannot. For I am defeated; no one can come back from the dead, you understand.”

Bass growled, reached over, and righted the king.

Rock summarily knocked it back down.

Before he could say anything—as his expression very much alluded to—Rock rose, arms stretched above his head, and yawned. His shirt lifted to give Bass a view of his abdomen, he leaned over the table, then placed a quick peck on Bass’s cheek before pulling away with a grin that hid a smirk. “Goodnight!” He chirped, then stifled a laugh as Bass caught his wrist and pulled him back onto the table. The chess pieces scattered, but neither seemed to pay them any mind.

“Where do you think _you’re_ going?” He growled, returning a smirk that promised a number of devious acts indeed. Before Rock could answer, he was pulled into a kiss that ruined his innocent façade with ease.

He didn’t end up going very far.

Finally, the blue of the Abelan kingdom shone like one of its mountain lakes in summer, the last beacon of hope that had saved a continent. The marriage of its only prince with Masterium’s ruler had been a dividing one indeed; many viewed it as a bold and important first step to making an ally of powerful nations, more viewed it as a treasonous act of spite. The royal family had voiced their support, but plenty of royalists demanded the decision be rescinded.

But there were some: a tiny—yet notably existent—portion of the population that viewed it as what it truly was.

An unlikely romance.

Because given time, as with all wounds: these bruises would heal.

And the bloody memories of history would fade into the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was quite the fucking ride, wasn't it? I started writing the first draft of OB&B's layout in FEBRUARY. tbh, I didn't even expect to finish it before March. My writing style has changed so much since the first few chapters reading back: my characterisations were far too fast-paced and non-sensical back then but oddly enough, my prose has gotten simpler. I'm not sure how to feel about that xD
> 
> I've been feeding this ship alone since September for a long while, but I'm afraid I must now bid sayonara to y'all, and allow someone else some spotlight. This was my first longfic, and also the first fic I've ever been proud of after finishing it. I highly doubt I'll be writing in a fandom any time soon, what with my next planned work being an original one, but do expect me to keep lurking here for years to come, if my previous rarepair shipping habits are anything to gleam from lol
> 
> So, to finish off: a final big thank you to all who were along for the ride! I wish y'all a wonderful 2021 and let's just hope I didn't fucking jinx it

**Author's Note:**

> That's all for now, folks! Leave a review with what you thought, they really keep me going!


End file.
